


FIELDS OF GOLD.

by RunePhoenix6769



Series: FIELDS OF GOLD [1]
Category: Beehaw - Fandom, RWBY, bumbleby
Genre: Beehaw, Cowgirl Yang, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Journalist Blake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2019-12-27 03:01:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18295511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunePhoenix6769/pseuds/RunePhoenix6769
Summary: On the run from her abusive ex boyfriend, Blake takes off on a road trip across America only to have an unexpected encounter.





	1. Chapter 1

She was loath to leave behind a good job with a reputable newspaper that she had spent years working hard for but things with her ex-boyfriend had gone too far, so she had packed her most cherished belongings into her car, hugged her housemate goodbye and tearfully parted, not telling Sienna where she was moving to so as not to put either of them in danger, plus she had no idea where she was going. Absconding in the middle of the night, she had driven to a dealership, which coming to think of it had seemed a bit sketchy being open so late, swapped her car, bought a new sim card and deactivated all her social media accounts.

She couldn’t remember how far she had driven, Route 66 meandering across America, she was sure she had crossed a number of State lines after taking a random exit in a bid to take a more scenic route and experience a true slice of Americana. She had stopped off at diners in the small nondescript towns she passed through, scoping them out as potential places to settle and make a fresh start, but none of them had taken her fancy.

It was in Oklahoma, 10 or so miles outside of somewhere called Clearwater that the engine gave out. Spewing up steam and making a bit of a gurgling sound as she willed the car to keep going, inch by laborious inch, the noise became too loud to ignore giving one last pathetic whine before the lights on the dash flickered and died and Blake thunked her forehead against the steering wheel in defeat. 

It was only when she was rummaging through her purse she remembered that she had forgotten to purchase data, so there was no google mapping where she was or try figure out if there was any local tow companies available.

Maybe if she got lucky she would be near one of the orange emergency phones that were dotted along the highways of America in case of this exact emergency?

With a deep sigh, she collected her purse and got out of the car to be instantly hit by a bank of oppressive heat and the glare of the midday sun. Shielding her eyes, she scanned the horizon and was meet with nothing but two fields either side of the highway, tall grain, rippling as far as the eye could see spread out like a vast golden ocean.  
The highway stretched like a snake, basking in the sun's rays, heat shimmered off the surface and in the far distance a twinkle, more than likely a mirage.

She wasn’t dressed for this weather vastly different from what she was used to back in New York, clad in heavy black jeans, a black tank top, heeled leather boots and jacket.

Reaching back through the car door, she retrieved her sunglasses from the visor and peeled off the heavy jacket, tossing it haphazardly onto the back seat. She began rummaging through the trash she had accumulated over course of her journey in the already sweltering car, sifting through candy wrappers, crisp packets and tuna sandwich covers. Stretching out, she began to blindly search under the passenger seat and let out a yip of triumph when her fingers coiled round the familiar feeling plastic of a water bottle but her victory short was lived as when she retrieved it, there was barely a drop left. 

The ground beneath her feet began to vibrate, like the very asphalt itself was coming alive and a deep rumble began to reverberate through the car. Blake crawled backwards, trying to get out of driver’s side door only to hit the back of her head on the roof in her haste. 

“ Fuck! … God damnit!” She cursed, out loud to no one in particular.

In a fit of temper and mounting frustration, she threw the bottle back into the depths of the car as the rumbling noise almost became deafening. 

Turning to investigate the hellish sound, the journalist saw in the distance a huge green tractor approaching at a speed that surprised her. She had always been under the impression that tractors where slow and lumbering. This was anything but, it was large, much larger than she ever anticipated and it was fast approaching.

Maybe whoever was driving was local? Maybe they would know a tow company or maybe they were a country bumpkin serial killer and all they would find of Blake was her busted car?

She could be easily buried in a field and turn into one of those cold case shows her mother liked to watch. It’s not like anyone knew where she was. 

OR,

She could stand on the side of the road, roast to death and die of thirst. They were her options! Looking up at the cloudless cerulean sky she spotted a bird hovering over the field.

I’ll die here and my bones will get picked clean by vultures, what a fitting end!

In University, she hadn’t been voted most likely to die in a freak accident and she had no intentions of putting herself in the running anytime soon. 

Death by country bumpkin serial killer it is then!

Wiping her already damp hands on her jeans, she stepped out giving the universal symbol of “I'm available to be mass murdered.” and hookers everywhere , stuck her arm out with thumb up and shielded her sunglasses from staring in the direction of the sun. 

The tractor ate up the asphalt leaving a plume of what looked like off coloured clouds in its wake from its side attached exhaust pipes. The machine looked monstrous. As it drew closer Blake could make out the height and width of the tyres, at least another foot towering over her decent 5ft 7 inches in slightly heeled boots, and she tried not to imagine being squished underneath them instinctively causing her to take a step back from the road. 

The wind screen was tinted making it near impossible to make out the driver.

The noise of the machinery clunked and clonked, almost as if making a mockery of Blake’s car’s plight, its cabin rocking and bouncing with its suspension even on the supposedly flat surface of the road and did not seem to be slowing down any time soon. In desperation, Blake flipped her long silky dark hair over her shoulder and flashed what she hoped was a megawatt inviting smile. 

With a deafening roar and rush of wind the tractor sped past leaving Blake in a cloud of dust, dirt and nasty exhaust fumes that stuck in the back of the throat, causing her to cough and splutter. With watering eyes, she was about to flip the jackass the bird when she noticed the tractor beginning to slow down before coming to a grinding halt, whipping up stones, up ahead on the side of the road.

Nobody alighted from the cabin at first and Blake remained cautiously beside her own car, the driver’s door open, in case she needed to hastily duck back in and lock the doors. Not that it would offer much protection from a LeatherFace kind of creature hell bent on ripping her limb from limb. 

After what seemed like an agonisingly long moment, the door to the cabin opened and someone casually hung out. 

From this distance Blake could just about make out a brown cowboy hat, the sun glinting off a pair of glasses, and a mass of unruly blonde locks. A voice called out that invoked images of apple pie, peach iced tea on the wrap around porch, nights spent plinking a guitar round a campfire on the plains, and lazy summer evenings watching the fireflies bump into each other. 

"Is everythin alright there, darlin?“

Ignoring the slight electric shock down her spine, and the ‘darlin’ part of the question, two very conflicting feelings, which right now was not the most opportune moment to act upon.

Blake took a step forward and away from the car. Holding up her hands so the other woman might see that she wasn't a threat. 

"My car…” She called out, "It conked out.. and my phone..." She gestured, "- has no data… was wondering if you might know a tow company I could call?“ 

The blonde paused, almost as if she was weighing the options, as Blake stood there sweating her tits off in the midday sun in the middle of the road in Buttsville County in whichever fucking State she was in. 

Finally, coming to a decision, the woman climbed down from the cabin. As she approached, Blake began to wish she hadn’t. 

As the Cowgirl, as Blake was beginning to think of her, came closer she could see the glasses were aviators. The blonde moved in confident strides, a roll to her hips and shoulders, worn brown cowboy boots, skin tight blue jeans held up with a chunky buckled belt, a yellow and brown flannel unbuttoned but knotted just on the tummy, accentuating the woman’s flat stomach and the rather impressive assets currently been held back by a straining bright white tank top. 

The only words that the journalist could bring to mind was ‘bombshell.’

As she came to a halt just in front of Blake, the journalist could make out a slight honeysuckle brown texture to the skin of her collar bones and her strong looking forearms, no doubt gained from long hours spent outside.

Blake licked her lips finding her mouth suddenly dry. 

The blonde woman’s teeth were bright white and her lips were moving. Her ears finally getting the attention of her brain, Blake realised the blond woman had been talking as she had been staring. She sputtered, 

"I’m sorry… I didn’t quite catch that.” 

With her fingers in the loop of her belt and a relaxed cock to her hips the blonde regarded her, making Blake suddenly conscious of the fact she had been practically living in her car for the past few weeks and the last time she had showered properly was at a truck stop. She attempted to draw her fingers through her hair now damp from slight perspiration gained from being the intense sun .

The blonde removed her glasses and asked, 

"How long you been out here? Did you get a touch of the sun fever?“

At first Blake bristled until she caught the hint of a smirk playing on the blonde’s lips.

She damn well knows and she’s teasing me about it, the journalist thought.

It was both parts hot and infuriating but she couldn’t help it when a laugh bubbled up from her stomach and erupted from her chest, causing the blonde to break into a huge grin with a devilish glint in her eye. 

Blake stuck out her hand in introduction.

"Blake! From New York.” 

The blonde took her hand shaking it with a firm grip. Her palm was surprisingly cool in heat of the day. This close Blake could make out a smattering of sun dapples across the bridge of the blonde's nose and apples of her cheeks and in the light her eyes looked almost lilac. As she shook her hand, she replied in an easy going almost teasing way,

" I was gonna say, you don’t look like you’re from round these parts.“. 

"It’s that obvious?”.

“ Yup….. 1) No one wears full black out here, especially not on a day like today. 2) You’re waving down strangers on the side of the road and 3) I know every one round here and I mean everyone and you, I don’t recognise…. So you’re either new to town or passing through!” 

She paused,

"Also…… Imma gonna need my hand back if you want me to have a look under the hood" 

And that’s when Blake, the supposedly sophisticated big city slicker, realised she had been grinning like a buffoon, her sweaty palm still pumping the cowgirl’s hand. She let go, giving an embarrassed cough, mumbling,

"Of course.. of course.“

Once again the cowgirl regarded her with a look Blake couldn’t fathom as the flustered woman tried to regain some composure. Her cheeks were burning that had nothing to do with being under the sun’s intense glare. In an attempt to hide her blush, Blake gestured with a incline of the head,

"I’ll just go pop the hood….. shall I ?” 

"That would be ideal. “ 

Blake ducked back into the car and almost yelped when her hand touched the metal of the door, it was scorching to the touch. Sucking on her fingers, she slid into the driver’s seat trying to ignore the pair of ever so slightly mocking lilac eyes watching her intently. 

Reaching underneath the steering wheel she fumbled about. With it being a new car she wasn’t entirely sure where anything was. At least she could duck her head and find some respite. Fingers clasped solid metal and she yanked hard to hear something click and the bonnet of the car popped open. The blonde flashed her a thumbs up before lifting the bonnet and disappearing from view.

Blake hastily checked her reflection in the rear view mirror, quickly combed her fingers through her hair, mumbling to herself that it would have to do before alighting from the vehicle and returning to the front to come across the cowgirl bent over inspecting the engine giving Blake a view of a very firm and pert backside, the skin tight jeans leaving nothing to the imagination. The white vest top had ridden up slightly showing off a muscular lower back and the ever so slight hint of a bright yellow thong poking out of the lip of the jeans. 

Blake swallowed, biting back the urge to fan herself, just as the cowgirl straightened up. She removed her cowboy hat, taking a brief moment to look around for somewhere to put it, before popping it on Blake’s head and returning to what she was doing.

Blake parked her backside ever so slightly on the lip of the bumper and watched as the blonde began checking the oil and water gauge. 

"I didn’t catch your name.”

"Cause I never gave it to you. “ Echoed from the depths of the engine. Straightening up the cowgirl gave Blake another annoying smirk, "I’m Yang….. From down the road.” 

The two women held each other’s gaze before Blake, once again, broke out in laughter. 

As Yang removed a hair tie from her wrist and attempted to bundle her unruly thick hair into a ponytail, Blake was certain she caught hints of gold glittering as it caught the sun light. 

“Would you have some water?” Yang asked. 

Blake shook her head, 

"I’m sorry. “ 

Yang gave a playful roll of her eyes. 

"Now I definitely know you ain’t from round here.” Bracing herself on edge of the bonnet with her hands, Yang added. “There’s some in the tractor.” 

"You want me to go to the tractor?-" Blake replied in slight disbelief, "-Are you not afraid that I might just abscond with it?”

"Do you know how to drive it?“

"No.” Blake admitted. 

"Then I think I’ll take my chances.-" There came another pause, ”…. It’s under the seat.“ 

Blake seemed to stutter at the trust she was being given as Yang’s eyes raked her up and down watching in interest.

Pushing herself off the car the journalist set off in the direction of the tractor. Arriving at the monstrous vehicle, it took her two attempts to climb up the awkwardly shaped steps. She almost fell off when she yanked the door only to find that it swung from front to back rather than a car door, back to front. She hung precariously for a few moments as her smooth soled boots slipped on the steps and she was able to nimbly correct herself. The cabin was surprisingly cool, tidy and smelt of freshly cut grass with a hint of lavender. With minimal effort she found the bottle of water retrieving it before ungracefully stumbling back down the steps, though she tried to be extra aware of her foot placement, and closing the door with a slam on her third attempt. 

Head long, she rushed back only to find Yang casually sitting on the bumper of the car bonnet flicking through her phone. At her approach the blonde looked up and Blake spotted a dash of dark oil on her cheek. 

Handing over the bottle of water, she watched in fascination the way the column of Yang’s neck bobbed as she swallowed the clear liquid. How it met the collar bones opening out to an expanse of honey coloured skin that looked soft to the touch, leading down to her cleavage that rose and fell ever so slightly. 

For the second time in 10 minutes Blake was reminded just how dry her mouth really was. Another sickle of a smirk was her greeting alerting the brunette to the fact that she had been caught staring yet again. 

Offering out the bottle, Yang innocently asked, 

"Thirsty?” 

A second seemed to last an eon as the implication hung there, crackling like an electron, and Blake caught the wicked flash of mischief.

Two could play at this game. 

Blake reached out for the bottle, allowing her pale finger to graze Yang’s as she took it. With a smirk of her own she held Yang’s gaze as she replied with a sultry,

"Parched!“ 

She continued to hold the other woman’s gaze as she drank and she was delighted to see a bit of colour blossom across the cowgirl’s cheeks and the tip of a pink tongue dart out out of the corner of her mouth, ending in her bottom lip being caught between white teeth. 

Finished, she screwed the cap back on the bottle, slowly and deliberately drawing her thumb across her bottom lip to catch the slight moisture left there

Without a word, Yang pushed herself off the lip of the car and closed the bonnet with a bang. She stepped up close to Blake, the other woman registered how the purple of her eyes was barely a thin ring bordering huge black pupils that almost reflected her image back. 

She leaned closer, her eyes darting all over Blake’s chest hungrily before coming back to her face. Leaning closer still, she breathed against the brunette’s ear, 

"Bring only the essentials and come with me.”

Blake barely had time to drink in the intoxicating smell of the cowgirl so close before Yang, deftly plucked the cowboy hat from Blake’s head popping it on her own, giving her a down right salacious wink and setting off back to the tractor.

Unable to move, Blake stood there in a stupor as her brain short circuited and a shock went straight from her stomach to her core, it was only when she heard Yang shout from up the road, "Unless you got better things to do." that she was finally able to move. It was almost like a jump start .

She flailed and tripped over herself, yanking on the door, scrabbling around the backseat, tearing open bags in an attempt to find a change of clothes, underwear, a towel and stuff them in a small backpack. She rammed in her toiletries bag, grabbed her laptop case and her purse. Closing the door with a slam as the sounds of the tractor’s engine roared to life, she had to retrace her steps so she could lock the door. 

She rushed almost head long across the bleached tarmac in the sweltering heat on a road in the middle of Buttsville County wherever the fuck she was, about to willingly and very eagerly, if she was being honest with herself, jump into a stranger’s vehicle leaving behind no trace as to being there, as she scrambled up the awkward steps and a warm megawatt smile, coupled with a strong yet cool hand reached to take her belongings, Blake realised, that she couldnt find it in herself to care. 

Her stuff safely stashed she hovered a little awkwardly, as there was only one seat and tractors were not designed for two, until Yang patted her firm muscular thigh. 

"C'mere, darlin, you ever ridden a cowgirl’s knee before?” 

Blake shook her head trying not to laugh instead she cheekily leaned forward breathing against Yang’s ear, 

"But I’m a tryer.... I’ll try anything once.“ 

Before swiftly snatching Yang’s hat from her head and placing it on her own once more. This time is was Yang’s turn to laugh.

"You’re a feisty one, that’s for sure.” 

Blake grinned, wickedly, 

"You have no idea" 

"But I’d sure like to find out, Darlin.“ 

Hands reached, helping turn Blake around, guiding the slightly smaller woman onto her lap positioning her side saddle so Yang could see the road and reach the wheel. Blake lay one arm round Yang’s strong shoulders and back, the other holding onto the stability handle to brace herself.

"You comfy, darlin?” 

And for the first time in just over a year, Blake truly was.

As Yang pressed the throttle the tractor lurched forward causing Blake to let out a surprised yelp and a giggle and Yang to guffaw. 

As they thundered down the road, the cabin shaking and bouncing, which from Blake’s vantage point gave her a very jiggly eyeful, she yelled out. 

"High ho Silver.. Awaaaaaay!“ 

Much to Yang’s amusement and a shake of her head.

Never in her life had Blake ever imagined she would find a fresh start in the cabin of a tractor that smelt of freshly cut grass and lavender, wearing a cowboy hat from a girl from in the middle of the road in Buttsville County, wherever the fuck she was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heya folks some of you were asking for more. 
> 
> reupload, as I realised i missed a chunk.
> 
> After a lot of thought, and how much I have been enjoying this AU. I thought I would add some more. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

X  
X  
X  
Passing a sign that simply reads, "Clearwater Welcomes You!" *Home of the Wild Hogs.* is the first indication that they have neared their destination as suddenly crop fields give way to a tiny dip that grants Blake her first view of Clearwater Town. It hugs the ground closely and yet fans out on all sides. Barely any of the low flat roofs of the red and brown buildings break above two storeys which is a stark comparison to New York city and its hemmed in, grid like streets and massive skyscrapers.

Slowing the tractor down to an acceptable speed they enter what Blake can only gather is the Main Street with its store front windows, parked cars and traffic lights winking over head. What strikes Blake as strange is how oddly wide it is. Even though there's cars parked on either side, there is enough space for two tractors to pass with maybe enough room in the middle for a car to squeeze through.

It is most definitely a road she couldn't imagine the neighbourhood kids back in NY being willing to play curby on as they would more than likely never get any points. She picks out a barbers pole, a huge General Store, with buckets and brushes outside. Overalls on hangers flapping in the slight breeze, fluorescent stars tell her she could own them for 20 dollars. As they pass by she reads in the window that they sell mobile data to all networks and they double up as a Post Office. Whipping her head back so fast to keep the general store in sight long enough to memorise it, she nearly threatens to fall off the cowgirl's lap, who tightens her arm around her.

"Easy there, darlin!"

Blake yells over the noise of the tractor,

"So sorry.. Its just.. Is this the main street?"

Yang briefly glances at Blake and back at the road,

"The Thoroughfare!"

"The Main Street!".

"Sorry.. Couldn't hear you over the noise ...I think you mean..." This time the cowgirl is looking at the journalist rather than the road and says with such determination there is no wriggle room for discussion and Blake can clearly hear the capital letters, "- The Thoroughfare!"

Blake takes her chances and replies with a grin,

"So you mean the Main Street then ?"

Yang throws her a look, and Blake wishes that the cowgirl wasn't wearing those infuriating but admittedly hot aviators so she could gauge her reaction. In their position, Yang is below her and kinda coming to her midriff.

"I'm starting to think I should have left you on the side of the road!"

But she playfully jostles her knee that is supporting Blake's rump, with a sickle of a smirk as she returns to concentrating on the road.

Slowing at traffic lights, Yang flicks the indicator and she is about to make the turn when there comes a sound of a horn and a white tow truck with orange flashing lights streaks past in the direction of the town's entrance. The cowgirl simply touches a finger to her hat in acknowledgement before continuing to ease the lumbering vehicle down the slightly narrower right hand street.

"There, -" She says, "- He's off to go get your car... It's in good hands."

"Thank you, so much... I really appreciate it, Yang."

"I'm likin how my name sounds in your accent!"

And Blake has to look away and out of the windshield at the smoothness and flirtatious tone to the compliment.

They pull over on the side of the road, near the expanse of a square village green with a smattering of children running after each other in the middle of a game of chase whilst others are crawling over the dome of a jungle jim on a small playground surrounded by low railings. Flanking each side of the square, Blake spies slightly grander buildings in comparison to main street, one having the word BANK in large golden filigree letters above its large open double doors.

As the noise of the engine dies down, the pair awkwardly shift in the small cabin as Blake gets up from cowgirl's lap and Yang swings open the cabin door. She hops out with a grace of an action repeated many times over. Offering out her open arms it's so warm and inviting the journalist considers leaping into them until she realises its an offer to help take her belongings.

Cursing inwardly at her moment of idiocy, Blake hands out her backpack only to find that this enticing stranger is still waiting for more. She swings out her purse, yet firmly clasps her laptop bag by its satchel handle. Tipping her aviators in understanding, the cowgirl gently places her cargo on the pavement before offering out her hand and this time Blake instinctively knows that this is meant for her.

Gripping the tractors stability handle vice like, she takes great pains to be aware of her footing, having no wish fall flat on her face and make a fool of herself, tips of her toes seeking out the strange shaped and deceptively precarious steps. Realising she will need both hands free, she slides the laptop bag strap over her neck and shoulder cross ways and begins to make her attempt. And still it's not enough as she tips forward, one hand seeking out a strong shoulder and the other unwilling to let go of the green metal of the tractor.

"Need some help, darlin?"

Looking down at her own image reflected in the dark surface of the aviators hiding lilac eyes, she can't tell if its a genuine offer or a repeat of the good natured teasing from earlier. Blake isn't overly prideful and the last thing she needs is to add hospital bills on top of getting her car fixed, which will already more than likely put a strain on her rather lean budget.

"Yes, please!"

Two strong hands firmly clasp her by either side of the waist and Blake cant help but be mildly surprised yet impressed at how she is lifted so effortlessly, almost as if she is as light as a child, down from the cabin, pressing for an all too brief moment against a solid yet feminine body. Yang's chunky belt buckle catches on Blake's jeans causing them to painfully ride up in places they have no right to be in

"Oww, oww ow!"

"What's wrong?"

Blake admits with shades of embarrassment,

"Wedgie!"

Yang looks down at her belt buckle and as she's trying to untangle them, she endearingly apologizes profusely,

"Sorry, sorry sorry, again!"

Steadying herself on Yang, she curls in closer letting out a light laugh,

"It's ok, it's ok!"

Once untangled Yang retrieved Blake's belongings, a backpack over one shoulder and purse over the other, before taking off away from the town green up a slight incline heading east.

"Askin you, kindly, to follow me."

"Where we going?"

"To a place you can stay the night."

Blake hung back,

"Stay the night?"

Yang stopped,

"The lad we passed on the way in, he's up the walls at the moment an I doubt he'll have chance to get round to looking at your car until, at least, tomorrow."

Blake hung back in indecision,

"C'mon, darlin! You're gonna love the place, trust me.... Which you kinda already do lil if the ride in was anything to go by."

Blake's cheeks burst into flame. Yang continued,

"The beds are soft, the showers are clean and she makes the best breakfast muffins in town, but don't let Nora catch you saying that out loud, or you'll be bounced outta town faster than you arrived."

Thinking the decision already made, again the cowgirl set off with confident strides, the enticing roll of skin tight jean clad hips drawing the journalist’s attention for a few moments, a fleeting thought of her own gayness registering before she mentally shook herself and scrambled to catch up.

Yang led her up the street coming to a halt outside a well-tended garden, full of colourful flowers and potted plants set back little ways off the road and surrounded by a brightly painted fence of railings. The cowgirl ducked down the flagstone path, stepping through the already wide open door, beckoning for Blake to follow.

Entering the building caused her to almost stumble and blink as she tried to give herself time to adjust to the difference of brightness after being under the almost blinding midday sun. Her vision swam with mottles of oranges and pinks fading to dust motes. Cool jets of air came from a fan that whirled away, lazily turning from side to side on top of a small highly polished counter, coloured pieces of string fluttering in the currents. Blake rushed forward almost shoving her face into the breeze letting out a small moan of appreciation as cool puffs of air soothed her perspiring skin and whipped back her ever so slightly damp hair.

Removing her sunglasses, she slipped them up on to her head, pausing mid action as she found herself the focus of the blonde who looked away quickly before rapping her knuckles once, lightly on the counter surface.

"Just a sec!" Came a bright and cheery reply from the depths of somewhere in the house.

Yang rested one elbow on the counter relaxing against it, removing her own glasses and pushing the temples closed with her mouth before slipping one down the front of her vest top briefly affording Blake a flash of her cleavage as they hung there pulling down the material slightly. The action sent a tingle from Blake’s stomach to her core. From under her lashes she cast the cowgirl a furtive glance before trying to distract herself with her surroundings.

Behind the counter was a surprisingly bright and airy open plan, what only Blake could describe as, a parlour. It had a rather grand chaise lovers seat in crushed blue velvet, a small highly polished coffee table which on top sat fresh flowers in a vase. South facing double bay french windows were open, a slight breeze wafting in flowery scents and causing the curtains to ever so slightly flutter. At the far end wooden panelled stairs curved back around on themselves leading up to another floor and disappearing from view. An Oaxacan rug with brightly coloured patterns nicely complimented the warm coloured, highly polished bare floorboards. The whole ensemble gave the room a warm and homely feel.

From round the corner came a slender looking girl, with light red hair in bunches and a brown and white gingham dress under a white frilly maid's apron, it brought to Blake's mind imagery often found between the pages of slice of life Americana novels, invoking little homesteads on the prairie behind the doors of which played out tales of a simpler time and an innocence not often found in the big city with its hectic streets and stiflingly tall buildings. The girl looked up, youthfully innocent eyes alighting on Yang and breaking into a huge smile. She paused, waving her hand open palmed and in a circle as if she was washing a window,

"Sal - U -Tations!"

As she stepped closer, Blake could see dark freckles smattered across pale cheeks. Her movements struck Blake as being delayed by a fraction, very deliberate and aware of their placement, giving the impression that she was held up by strings that she was afraid might tangle.

The golden cowgirl replied in greeting,

"Hey, Penny..... Where's the old lady?"

The title didn't strike the journalist as rude, more like an honorific. Penny ever so slightly tipped her head to one side and back with a stilted delay.

"She is in the garden,-" The teenager paused, "- Who is your friend?"

Still leaning with one elbow on the counter, Yang offered,

"This is Blake, she's from the big city."

At that Penny stepped from the behind the counter beginning to circle Blake a fraction too close, almost as if she was inspecting her. In slight bewilderment Blake caught herself turning around as if following the young girl, mirroring her actions. Penny's green eyes were wide with childlike fascination and wonder, she breathed,

"Wow! The big city!"

Under her gaze, the journalist tried to shift back but found herself up against the wood of the counter as Penny leaned in a little closer.

"Penny," Yang said, "- Ruby asked me to tell you, she'll meet at the usual time, after she's finished some chores."

And suddenly the teenager's interest in Blake evaporated as she swung her head in the cowgirl's direction. The teenger fished her phone out of the front pocket of her apron, this close Blake could her features painfully slowly crinkle as if the thought was taking its time to catch up as she watched the girl check her phone.

The cowgirl offered, warmth lacing her voice,

"She broke her phone... Apparently, it bounced out of her pocket when she went for a run."

"Again?" The teenager gasped.

"Yup, you know how she is!" Yang replied with a grin and a one armed shrug.

"I wondered why I had not heard back!" Penny's smile widened, "Guess that explains it, then!" She held out her phone to Yang, "Look at the campaign I have planned" Yang took the phone and began scrolling through, Penny continued, shifting slightly from one foot to the other, "- Do you think she will like it?"

Blake watched as the cowgirl took her time, her expression changing from smiles, to nodding, to quirks of an eyebrow, all the while watched eagerly by the teenager, who nervously wrung her hands with a look of apprehension on her face. Yang handed it back with a broad smile,

"Lots of monsters to kill. She will love it!"

At that the teenager broke into a huge smile lighting up her whole face,

"You think so?"

"I do, Penny!"

The teenager barreled into the blonde, enveloping her in a hug with such force it nearly caused the woman to lose balance and Blake stifled a chuckle,

"Thank you!"

Yang gave the teenage girl a small pat on the back as she let go,

"So, outside the library at the usual time?"

"So that means half an hour later because Ruby is never on time."

The cowgirl gave an easy grin,

"Yup, you got it, exactly!"

The red head gave a little shake of her head causing her bunches to bounce. Suddenly, the wall mounted phone behind the counter began to peel, a tiny red light flashing beside a number.

"I better get that!"

As Penny busied herself answering the call, Yang once again beckoned Blake to follow and she moved off further into the depths of the house.

Following at close quarters, she almost plowed into the back of the blonde, who suddenly stopped at the edge of a blue paved patio under a pagoda full of freshly watered hanging vines and flower baskets. In comparison to the warm browns, oranges and russets of the house, the garden was awash with bright colours of well tended flowers surprisingly healthy and in full bloom under the intense summer sun. Blocking her view Blake couldn't see who Yang was addressing,

"Heya, old lady!"

"Xiao-Long," There came the sound of swift clacking punctuated by a long pause before it resumed and there came an almost ornery," Purse suits you!"

The journalist witnessed how shoulders slightly bunched as the cowgirl replied with a hint of aggravation,

"It's not mine!"

"Gathered as much!"

The clacking continued,

"Your Papa has hardly gone through a bottle of sauce already?"

"No, I got someone whose in need of somewhere to stay for the night." Gone was the slight rancour, replaced with hope as Yang added, " If you have a room spare?!"

The clacking paused,

"Auction Day is in a few days, -" There came a sniff as the clacking resumed, "- I'm booked out."

"Awww, come one Abuela, she's in a bit of a jam."

There came a long pause as the clacking sound began to get faster and faster,

"This is the sound of me not caring!"

The cowgirl's voice became syrupy, as if she was trying to coax the birds from out of the very trees,

" I told her this is the best place in town."

The clacking stopped, the tone tried to remain brusque but failed,

"Xiao-Long, don't you try and flatter me!"

The woman began to mutter in Spanish and the journalist had to laugh as she caught bits and pieces. Blake leaned round the cowgirl adding,

"She also said that you just so happen to make the best breakfast muffins in town, and not to let someone called Nora hear me say it out loud."

There came a bark of laughter. Obviously whatever Blake had said had appealed to the old woman as she said,

"Come here, let me have a look at you."

Yang stood to one side, affording Blake the view of the owner of the voice.

In a wicker, high backed chair sat a small old woman with knitting in her lap. Her skin was brown , weathered with age and full of laughter lines around her mouth, putting Blake in mind of a wizened walnut. She had dark grey hair, loosely pulled back into a bun at her nuque. Two huge grey eyes peered from behind overly large and thick glasses. Beside the chair rested a beautifully crafted, heavy duty looking cane with an intricately carved and ornate sugar skull in it's pommel, looking more like a weapon than a walking stick. Over her shoulders lay a blue woollen shawl full detailed patterns. Given her almost ornery tone towards Yang, Blake was surprised to find that even when resting, the old lady's lips turned up at the corners, almost as if she knew the answer to some great cosmic joke and had no intentions of letting anyone else in on the secret.

The old lady gestured for the journalist to step closer and as she passed she heard Yang murmur,

"Traitor! ... She's gonna be insufferable now!"

"Hey, I heard that!" The old woman snapped, "- I'm partially blind, not deaf!" She gave a smug pat of her hair, "- But it's good to know I'm appreciated!"

Yang smiled, with a shake of her head,

"See, I told you!"

Blake stepped off the patio and onto the gravel path that would lead to the old women. She noticed how eyes never left her and as she drew closer. The old woman reached for her hand, turning out her palm, bringing it up close to inspect it. A warm yet surprisingly soft finger tip traveled the creases and lines as head bowed the woman began to hum and ah to herself. Suddenly her head snapped up and Blake found herself under the scrutiny of two magnified eyes, the journalist spied a spry intelligence there and though she had told them that she was partially blind, the New Yorker doubted that anything got by her. The woman turned Blake's hand over in her own, giving it a soft squeeze and a pat as she said quietly,

"Take as long as you need, Mi Nina." She gave the journalist a smile, "- You can call me Maria," She leaned round Blake to peer at Yang, "- Though some people insist on calling Abuela, why I'll never know?"

Placing her knitting needles behind her on the seat, Maria used the arm rests to get to her feet, waving away the offered hand to help. Using her cane, she set off with a slightly hunched over shuffle at a speed that surprised the journalist. As the boarding house owner passed Yang, she gave her forearm a friendly pat before disappearing under the pagoda. Giving Blake a nod as an indication to follow, the cowgirl set off after Maria back into the gloom of the house, leaving Blake to bring up the rear

Finding the counter abandoned, Maria pulled out a heavy looking ledger and began to search for something all the while muttering away to herself in Spanish before suddenly taking off into another room leaving the two women alone.

Yang gently placed Blake's belongings onto the counter's surface as Blake's own hands tightly clasp the satchel handle of her laptop bag and she notices how the cowgirl's hand lingers on the backpack's strap and the journalist is surprised to find a jolt of a thought coming to the fore, that she doesn't want this to be the end of their chance encounter. Yet she knows it is a ridiculous notion to entertain.

Yang gives her a small smile, gone is the flirty cowgirl instead replaced with something the brunette cant fathom.

"She'll take good care of you..." There is a pause as the blonde stares at her with a miniscule knit to her brows, "- I guess I'll be off then. Daylight is burning as they say!"

Blake doesnt know why, maybe it's a bid to put off the inevitable of this alluring woman leaving, but she finds herself stepping forward and blurting,

"Who says?

Internally, the person who makes a living through words is cursing at her lack of eloquence and in her mind's eye banging her head off a wall. Yang doesnt mock, instead she inches closer resting against the counter, the crease of her eyebrows receding as she gives a bright smile,

"I dunno, darlin, just people."

And Blake scrambles for any excuse to keep this conversation going, ignoring the mini demon on her shoulder, who for some reason has taken the form of a school ma'am wearing half moon glasses, whispering in her ear that she is being an idiot that she can't run the risk of embroiling Yang in the mess that is her life.

"I think it was Jack London who first coined the phrase."

"The Klondike Gold Rush guy?"

"Yes! That's him."

Yang casually crossed her arms,

"Eh, who would have thought?-" She leaned a little closer to Blake, "- Got a confession. I always much preferred the second edit of To Build a Fire, to the first!"

It doesn't come across as arrogant or all knowing but rather an invitation that leaves Blake opening and closing her mouth like a fish, struggling to form a coherent rebuttal as competing thoughts that refuse to untangle or slot into any order continue to cause chaos. It must be evident on her face because the cowgirl's smile turns into smug smirk,

"Weren't expecting that, were you, darlin?"

And Blake can not lie, she wasn't, and she realises that she is once again the focus of eyes watching her intently almost as if waiting to see what she will do. Gathering her thoughts, she replies,

"No I wasn't!" At that she watches eyebrows rise and eyes narrow in offense, she rushes to continue, " It's not that I'm surprised that a ..."

"It's ok, you can say it!"

"That a.."

Yang finishes her sentence,

"A country bumpkin!"

Blake scrambles to correct her,

"No! ...... I was going to say, a Country Person,-" She ignores how the cowgirl purses her lips and eyes widen, "- As I was saying, I am not surprised, a ..."

The blonde offers,

"Country person, "

"Yes, a person from the country would know of Jack London or To Build A Fire, but rather the preposterous notion that the 1908 edit is any where near as good as the original 1902 piece!"

Stepping away from the counter and facing the journalist head on, Yang takes a step closer and Blake finds herself momentarily distracted with how the tiny fan is blowing the scent of freshly cut grass and lavender in her direction. There is a hint of a challenging smirk playing at the corner of her lips as she looks down on Blake, the added height making all the difference as she says,

"Preposterous notion, you say?"

Unable to back down, Blake stands up straight, squaring her shoulders as much as she can clasping her laptop bag by the handle under that intense gaze. With a small shake of her head, she smugly replies,

"Yes!- " She repeats it as a confirmation of sorts and for a brief moment she wonders who she is trying to convince, "- Yes, I do!"

She is about to give her rebuttal when Maria comes back into the room with a handful of pens,

"What are you two gabbing about?"

The two young women hold each others gaze for a beat and Blake finds the words slipping from her mouth before she can stop them,

"This conversation isn't over!"

Breaking into a broad shark like grin and eyes narrowing much like a cat having spied something to play with, the blonde replies with a teasing provocation,

"Is that so?"

The journalist breaths in through her nose and with a tip of her head turns to rest her elbows on the counter to find Maria watching the pair. The old woman opens the ledger, bowing her head,

"Now, if you two are quite done flirting, I'll be taking your details.!"

Yang lets out a shocked,

"Abuela!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Blake catches how the blonde suddenly turns red and in a bid to hide the heat that is creeping over her own cheeks she finds herself instantaneously fascinated by a pamphlet announcing the forthcoming hog sale at the local Auction Mart. She is so engrossed in the number of confusing breeds of pigs as she hadn't known there were so many she almost doesn't hear when Maria asks her for some form of I.D. Hunting through her purse, Blake pulls out her passport swapping it with Maria for the ledger and a pen,

"If you'd be so kind to fill in the details there. Is just to keep record if something happens."

Hurriedly, the journalist fills in her name, date of birth and it is as she is trying to decide between her state of birth or New York that the boarding house owner announces,

"Blake..." She holds the passport closer to her face, "- Belladonna... Like the plant?"

The journalist looked up from the page,

"Yes"

"Italian for beautiful lady too, if I know my languages and I do." Blake's ears prick slightly at the sound of someone beside her letting out a strangled noise. Ignoring it, Maria peers up at her from behind the counter, "Are you Italian? It says here that you're Hawaiian,"

As she is signing her signature, Blake offers,

"I'm Hawaiian, born and raised."

Maria hands back the passport and takes the ledger,

"Who in their right minds puts pineapple on pizza because that in my books is an abomination and a waste of good food!-" Yang lets out a snort of laughter and before the journalist can reply, the boarding house owner continues, as if she just hadn't insulted pineapple pizza lovers everywhere, "- Speaking of food, breakfast comes with the room, served from 8 till 9, after that you'll have to fend for yourself. We don't provide lunch but I can provide dinner, if you ask in the morning."

The old woman moves off towards the stairs, her walking stick making a thunk as it hit the floorboards. Before Blake can reach for them, the cowgirl swings her backpack over one shoulder and grabs the purse off the counter. She holds one arm out politely gesturing for the journalist to go in front. They do this dance, hopping from one foot to the other, both encouraging the other to go first until they hear Maria whack her cane on the stairs,

"Would one of you useless idiots kindly make a decision as I would like to get back to my knitting at some point before I die!"

Grinning, the blond replied,

"Aww Abuela, you're not gonna die!"

From her vantage point on the stairs, Maria countered,

"Santa Muerte comes for everybody at some point.. and how many times have I told you.... Don't call me that!- " She began to slowly ascend the stairs, gripping the bannister with one hand and using her stick as leverage. "- I swear Xiao-Long one day you'll feel the back of my cane!" She peered over the bannister, punctuating every word with shake of her stick, "- And... It.. Will.. Hurt!"

Blake got the impression that the threat was idle as she witnessed the cowgirl childishly stick out her tongue

"And don't think I didn't see that tongue.-" The grey haired woman, playfully groused. "- Put it back in your mouth unless you mean to use it!"

For the second time in ten minutes,Yang let out another shocked,

"Abuela!"

The old woman broke out into a cackle,

"That shut you up now, didn't it?"

Unable to stop herself, the journalist broke into fits of laughter as she watched the cowgirl try to hide her scarlet face with her hands, shaking her head. After a long moment, Yang peered from under the brim of her hat, heat still evident on her cheeks and she mouthed,

"Sorry."

From somewhere upstairs, Maria shouted,

"Ahhhh peace and quiet... That's what I like to hear! "

Yang darted over the parlour to the bottom of the stairs, yelling up them into the eaves of the house,

"Hey! Old Lady! - " Before rushing up the steps taking them two at a time with a stomp of her cowboy boots, "-Don't think I ain't above helpin the Grim Reaper with an early delivery!"

"You and whose army?" Came the reply followed by another gleeful cackle.

As the faux argument continued to play out, idle threats and snippy retorts echoing through the house, Blake spied movement in the doorway beside the counter. Her gaze landed on Penny who was deeply engrossed in a tablet in her hands, 

"Are they ok?" 

The teenager looked up, giving the journalist a bright smile, 

"They're always like this. It's nothing to worry about, it's how they communicate.-" Taking a step further into the room, she cast a glance up at the roof as they both heard a loud and distinctive accent, "I swear, I'll have you put in a home, if you say one more thing". Blake's eyebrows rose a fraction and Penny rushed to add, "-She doesn't mean that!..... Or at least I don't think she does."

Silence descended through the house and for a flicker of a second, Blake thought that this strange double act was over until she heard Maria shout,

"Miss Honolulu, Yang has......"

The rest of the sentence ended in garbled noises, as if someone was being smothered. She shared a look with the teenager who added,

"Maybe you should to get up there, just in case?"

With a nod and a small awkward wave, Blake took off up the stairs to come upon a wide hallway with a three doors. At the end was a large domed window seat that cast the bright light down the hallway, playing off the colours of the deep red carpet, setting the hallway in a warm comforting glow. She followed the sound of muffled voices to the end, taking the turn to find yet another set of stairs leading up. Continuing to make her way up, she peered back through the rungs of the bannister on the upper floor and spied Maria sat in another domed window seat, the twin to one from the floor below. Yang was leaned over the old woman as if in deep conversation and as Blake made the landing, they both looked up.

"Ah!" Maria announced, "Sure took your time. And they call me the old lady!"

Blake scurried down the hallway,

"I'm sorry."

"This is the quietest part of the house. There's one other lady on the floor. She's a nice, once you get to know her.-" Maria eased herself slowly off the window seat handing Yang a set of keys, "- You'll find everything you need in the room.-" As she shuffled past the New Yorker she gave her arm a gentle pat, "- I'll leave you both to it!"

Straightening up the blonde smiled, giving a soft genial roll of her eyes,

"Don't pay any attention to her!"

As the two women stood in the sun dappled hallway they could hear the thunk of the cane off wood hearalding Maria's descent. As Yang turned to unlock the door a voice echoed up the stairwell,

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

The key juttered in the cowgirl's hand, missing the lock and Blake heard a soft curse of, "God dammit!" as laughter drifted from the floor below. Yang bent down closer to the lock, turning her back slightly as she struggled to get the key in the hole, grumbling to herself. Finally succeeding the bedroom door swung inwards bathing the cowgirl in a bright shaft of light. Moving back she gestured for Blake to go ahead.

Stepping into the room, the journalist quickly took in her surroundings. The room was comfortably spacious, a metal framed double bed in the far corner to the right of a large window that overlooked the garden below. Below a dado rail that ran round the room at mid height the walls were covered in a flower patterned wallpaper of pale lavender, above the rail they were painted white, reproductions of famous turn of the century french cafe posters were set inside panels at intervals. Blake recognised one in particular having seen it on many a college dorm room wall or hanging in would be writers sitting rooms, advertising 'Tournee La Chat Noir', the black cat in contrast with the light orange and reds. On the right hand wall just below the end of the bed was another small window above a small desk and next to another white door.

Opening the door to investigate, she was mildly surprised to find a rather small, but sparklingly clean bathroom smelling of eucalyptus with a toilet, serviceable sink and at the other end a small shower. It all looked as if it had been squashed into what had once been a large closet space. One top of the toilet seat was a set of fresh fluffy towels, a wash cloth, fresh unopened soap and a new toilet roll.

Closing the door she found that Yang had entered and was attempting to open the far window. A gentle breeze trickled through, shifting the curtains and whipping up scents from the garden. Coupled with the decor of the room, for a brief moment Blake could imagine that she was in some country home in Europe somewhere on a mid spring morning rather than on the run from some terror and broken down in a tiny backwater town in Oklahoma.

Moving back into the room, she placed her laptop bag on the small desk, the action causing Yang to turn and place her own cargo on the bed. Both women hovered for a moment, a heady silence between them, as if neither knew what to say as their parting was fast approaching,

"I best be off then...."

The end of the blonde's sentence hanging, the words slightly echoing off the walls as if egging Blake on to say something, anything.

"Thankyou, Yang..." Blake gestured with a hand, sweeping the room, "- For all of this."

Doffing the brim of her hat with a finger, the cowgirl replied,

"It was my pleasure."

"No, really I mean it. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't saved me."

The blonde seemed to shift awkwardly at the compliment, before adding,

"And I mean it too. It really was a pleasure." She stuck out her hand and as Blake took the slightly calloused yet cool hand in her own she continued, "- It was nice to meet you, Blake Belladonna from New York."

Shaking it, Blake replied,

"And you too, Yang Xiao Long from up the road."

They both broke into a laugh at the shared joke, neither letting go of the others hand. As the laughter died down they gazed at each other for a long beat, before Yang gave a little nod of her head breaking eye contact. The journalist reluctantly let go of her hand. She watched as the cowgirl moved off down the hallway, her hair glittering in the light and it seemed to the New Yorker that the blonde was taking her time, dragging her feet.

Surely this couldn't be it?

As the blonde was about to make it to the end of the hallway and down the stairs, probably disappearing from her life forever, Blake came to a decision, calling out,

"Yang!"

The cowgirl whipped round with the lightening speed of a grass snake and a big grin. Blake caught the hope in her voice,

"Yes?"

Taking a step closer to the doorway and leaning against the door frame, she asked,

"Would you recommend some place that an out of towner could get a bite to eat and wifi?"

With hands stuffed in her back pockets, the action pushing her chest out and once again drawing Blake's gaze, Yang paced back towards her.

"There's Dana's Diner. That's where most folks go."

Behind her, the New Yorker spied the doorway across the hall open a crack and caught a glimpse of a woman with flaxen hair it almost looked like spun silver and stern looking features. Ignoring it, she returned her attentions to Yang, trying to convey her meaning without being to forward,

"Do you?..." She stuttered, "As in, do you go there?"

A sickle of a smirk played at the corners of the blonde's lips as she casually dug her toe into the floorboards, rolling out the word,

"Maaaybe?"

Feeling a matching grin spread across her own face, Blake replied,

"I guess if it comes so highly recommended, I'll have to check it out then.....After I shower and sort out the car?"

"I think Dana starts the evening menu after 6?"

"After 6? Right, I'll definitely check it out."

The doorway across the hall suddenly closed with a slam, breaking their moment as Yang turned to investigate. With another finger at the brim of her hat, Yang tipped it, as she said,

"I'll catch you later, darlin."

A tendril of excitement flip flopped her tummy at the potential future meeting as Blake let out a soft,

"See ya!"

The cowgirl gave her bashful grin before taking off with confident strides and that mesmerising roll of her hips that the journalist couldn't help but watch until the very last minute and they were out of sight. Quickly closing her own door, she rested her forehead against the cool wood as her brain ran a mile a minute.

What was she thinking?

How could she possibly be entertaining seeking out this stranger, not denying a hot one at that but still a stranger nonetheless. One who seemed to turn her into a blushing school girl in the vicinity of their crush. In the past she would never have called herself forward, much rather hanging back and accessing the situation, not that it had done her any good with Adam.

For all she knew maybe this was the cowgirl's MO?

Maybe she was one in a long line of women?

Or maybe, just maybe, Blake's brain was running away with her, the negative thoughts being something she had grown accustomed to over the last 3 years.

What harm could it do to spend some time with good company? She couldn't even remember the last time she had, had a decent conversation in the last few weeks that did not consist of food orders and truck stop enquiries.

Besides, it wasn't like it was set in stone as to how the evening would go.

For all she knew, Blake might have taken the meaning wrong, being nothing more than genuine Oklahoma hospitality and the cowgirl might not show. It wasn't as if she was obligated or that Blake was her responsibility. But she was almost certain that she hadn't mistaken the meaning behind the nugget of information that after 6 she might find the enticing cowgirl there.

Making her way over the floorboards she dramatically flopped face first into the bed and was surprised to find it springy and soft, the metal frame and springs making a squeaking sound as the mattress vibrated slightly from the sudden onslaught. The sound of the birds in the garden, intermingled with the coolness of the room and hints of lavender in the bed sheets that reminded her of a barely departed cowgirl, her breathing began to shallow as she was overcome with a wave of exhaustion.

Quickly she unzipped her boots, discarding them on the floorboards and wriggled out of her jeans before reaching for the soft puffy white duvet and wrapping herself in a cocoon.

Against the backdrop of soothing sounds and the gentle aroma lulling her to sleep, she had a flash of dancing lilac eyes and warmth reached up from the depths of unconsciousness wrapping her in its embrace. The softness of the mattress gave way to clouds in an endless summer sky, meadows of grass rippling as far as the eye could see and for once in as long as Blake could remember, she didn't fight it, instead she relaxed into it willingly, excited to see what Morpheus had in store.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE SHOUT OUT to smttnpegasus (butwhowouldbuythecupcakes) who helped spark this whole thing, who at this point dare I say she's a beta, a sound board and without her advice and encouragement, (and the support of the rest of the Books and Bitches crew) I would have prolly gone a lil nuts and packed this in.

x  
x

Distinctive sounds of boots on hardwood floorboards obnoxiously slithered into Blake's slumber turning dreams into nightmares. She startles awake, searching underneath her pillow with a panicked ferenvancy that only intensifies as she cannot locate the small cosh that has become her bed companion over the last 18 months. It is only when the sound of footsteps fade, as would be normal for the owner to be navigating a stairwell, that her breathing slows and her thoughts catch up with her reminding her that she isn't in NY anymore, he isn't here and there is over 2000 solid miles of a landmass between them. 

With a heavy head and cotton wool mouth she drags herself upright. The last few weeks of truck stops, crappy motels and being squashed on her side in her rather cramped car hasn't been the best for her posture and the soft springy mattress with its warm duvet is inviting. She contemplates simply flopping back down chasing the much needed rest she had lost over the months, always being on edge, expecting the bedroom door to be viciously kicked in at any moment and she briefly wonders if she there will ever come a time where she doesnt live in a constant state of anxiousness. 

The skin and muscles of her back pucker painfully in memory and a wave of nausea grips her insides. At first she tries to fight it, but she has dealt with it enough times to know that to try and ride it out will only result in it getting much worse. 

There is only one remedy. 

She darts to the bathroom, throwing herself onto her knees and knocking all the towels and bathroom utensils on floor in her haste to get up the toilet seat, she vomits and retches until there is nothing but water and bile. With spasming abdominals and shaky limbs, she collapses back on her haunches, her hands bracing against the toilet seat, the cool porcelain giving some strange form of comfort as she gasps shallow breaths that never quite fill her airways or expand her chest to its full capacity.

Struggling to her feet, she runs the tap, grateful of the cool jets of fresh smelling crystal clear liquid, she washes out her mouth in a bid to get rid of the foul taste she imagines is some pathetic metaphor for her life right now. Splashing her face, she catches her reflection in the mirror.

And quite frankly, she admits, she looks a fright! 

Her long dark hair is greasy, almost shiny with it as it hangs in lank strands over her shoulders whilst also being plastered to her skull. Her cheeks are sunken and deathly pale, coupled with the dark rings under her eyes, she looks almost like the boarding house owners namesake. Her eyes have a haunted quality, no longer bright with youth and naivety instead replaced with an almost feral quality from living on a knife's edge for far too long. For a flicker of a moment she catches movement behind her, causing her to whip round, hands instinctively ready to pull the bathroom door closed to form a barrier of protection, blood rushing in her ears and heart pounding in her chest. It's only when she registers that the movement is simply the curtain fluttering in the light breeze that she is able to unbunch just a little and return to what she was doing.

Catching her reflection once more in the mirror, she is almost certain it shakes its head in disappointment. Unable to meet it any longer, she searches for the washcloth, turning on the hot tap and deliberately ignores her mirrors image and she is certain that it mouths coward as it distorts, disappearing behind a thin veil of condensation. Sniffing, she catches a whiff of herself, almost reeling from the stink, her thoughts drift to the day's earlier events and the helpful stranger wondering how on earth she managed to put up with it at such close quarters. Thoughts slowly trip over with each other as she remembers their not quite set in stone rendezvous,

Oh my god! Yang!

Her mind runs like a intersection without traffic lights, thoughts like cars, whizzing past each other, careening into each other at high speed as she darts back into the bedroom searching for her phone.

What time is it?

Finding her phone out of juice, she curses as she begins hurriedly searching through her backpack, pulling out it's contents .

"Where are you?" She announces to the room in some weird hope that the offending charger might just reply back, "- Don't say I left you in the car!"

She tips out the contents of her purse onto the bed and grasps at the charger cable, impatiently shaking and pulling at it as its coiled round a hair brush and her wallet. Searching the walls, she locates a plug socket and waits those agonisingly long seconds for the wink of a battery image to flash upon the screen. Realising that electricity and technology is governed by the rules of science and not magic, that the phone won't recharge with a snap of her fingers, she collects her strewn clothing off the floor placing them on the bed. Whipping off the tank top and her underwear, she grabs her toiletries bag and disappears back into the bathroom, throwing the phone a scowl before closing and locking the door.

From the tap quite, a gathering of steam has accumulated, intermingling with the eucalyptus in this small space, Blake finds her lungs opening up and it feels like that for the first time in months she is truly breathing. Unsure fingers turn dials and press buttons on the shower and she lets out a shriek as the shower head sprays her with freezing cold jets.

Once the temperature is to her liking, she willingly steps under it, letting out a moan of appreciation as the hot water hits her tense muscles. She makes an attempt to rub out the knots as the water hits her upturned face and she turns to one side, bracing herself against the wall as her back is pummeled by the high powered jets. How long has it been since she's had such luxury, having grown accustomed to the weak streams from decrepit attached shower heads or simply washing her armpits and nether regions with a hasty baby wipe or squeezed out towel in rank public toilets or barely clean petrol station lavatories usually accompanied by the sound of impatient banging on the door.

Relaxing, she takes her time to wash and condition her hair, scrub her skin almost until it hurts and finally having the time to see to places that had been neglected on her journey, she lathers up humming away to herself as she shaves her armpits and fuzzy legs and snips at other places with a small pair of nail scissors until she is entirely satisfied. The grooming is wholly necessary, she tells herself, not because she is expecting anything from the evening but rather a case of she has no idea when she might next get the opportunity to tend to things that can get out of control when not kept on top of.

Making sure that she isn't leaving behind any nasty surprises for whomever is in charge of housekeeping, she cuts off the shower and wraps herself sari style in one of the big fluffy towels before squeezing out her hair and encompassing it in another smaller towel, turban style. Taking her time, she brushes her teeth and flosses, pulling faces at what she has found hiding in between the crevices and is massively grateful when she searches through the over head cabinet to find a new unopened travel size mouthwash in mint sitting on one of the shelves.

God bless this place, she thinks as she takes a mouthful, swishing it this way and that before spitting it out. She spares a thought for the hitch hiking homeless criss crossing America who do not have the privilege of their own car or cash to spare, which when she comes to think of it, she could fast be joining them if she doesn't figure out something soon. It's a sobering thought and one that almost threatens to derail her new found lighter mood. 

Opening the door to let out the condensation, she doesn't mind the tiny breeze that filters through the open window giving her tiny goose bumps. It actually feels nice to be naked for a change. To bask in the freedom of movement away from restrictions of garments stretched taut over cramping muscles and glued to her skin for hours at a time as she navigated the highways and bi-ways.

Toweling her body dry, making sure to fold it and place it on the rack above the radiator not wishing to be thought of as disrespectful or slovenly, she starts to lather herself in moisturiser from the tips of her toes to the ends of her fingers taking note that it's is only SPF 15 and would lend little to no protection against the relentless Oklahoma sunshine. With firm fingers she works it hard into the muscles of her slim yet firm thighs, pondering for a flash that they are no way near in the league of the one she rode into town on but not too shabby if she would say so herself. She works it into her shoulders and arms enjoying the scent of chocolate and coconut that permeates through the small space. As she works, she begins to feel like a new woman, not some crusty grizzled vagabond, each swipe as if getting rid of each mile travelled carrying her further away from the reason why she had left New York hell for leather in the first place.

She thinks briefly of Sienna and has to fight the overwhelming urge to call her, to let her old flatmate know that she is some semblance of safe but knowing that to do so could bring dire consequences, she instead swallows it.

Maybe if she finds a pay phone she could risk it?

But what would she say? 

It wasn't like she would be able to tell her dear friend where she was or gossip to her about all the strange places she has seen or describe in colourful detail how vast and wild their country really was once you left the outskirts of the fast paced city. It wasn't like she was on a whimsical journey of self discovery like famed writers of old, she was eating up miles of asphalt because she had her tail firmly clamped between her legs and had no wish to be found.

With a shake of her head, she chases away the thoughts as she tidies up her toiletries back in the bag leaving it neatly packed on the cistern. Wandering back into the bright and airy bedroom she begins to investigate through the drawers of the furniture, happy when she opens up a wardrobe to find a long mirror on the inside of the door, another set of towels, a rolled up plushie blanket and beside it a hairdryer, cord neatly wrapped round the handle. Though she has always been lucky with her hair that it tended not to become too unwieldy when it drip dried, she much preferred to be able to style it rather than have moisture dripping into her clothes.

As she plugged in the dryer in the twin socket beside the charger, she checked her phone and found it at 15%. With one finger she turned it on, discarding it as she retrieved her hair brush and set to making swift work of her hair. Settling on a quick and simple style, she used the brush to tease the ends of her hair into soft curls encouraging them to fall over her shoulders. 

Satisfied, she slid into fresh clean underwear loving how they felt before hopping into a pair of light jeans and shrugging into a white top that criss crossed over her chest, leaving her arms and lower midriff bare. It couldn't do any harm to show a little skin, especially in this sweltering heat.

It was as she was putting the finishing touches to a light smattering of make up, just enough to make her feel confident but no too much that she looked like a harlot, her phone beeped. She froze for a second wondering as to who could have the recently purchased number before letting go of a small breathe she hadn't realised she was holding when she remembered the only person who had her new digits was her mother.

Grabbing her phone her finger hovered over the words MOM, considering letting it go to voicemail, before relenting and swiping right. Sitting on the bed she trapped the phone between her cheek and shoulder, simultaneously reaching for her discarded boot. Lacing her voice with faux brightness, she answered, 

"Hi, Mom!"

"Aloha, sweetpea!" Blake could imagine her mother sat out in the decking that overlooked the ocean sipping her noon herbal tea whilst her father remained in his study, no doubt about to work through yet another lunch overseeing the governance of the town or working on some big case. Her mother's warm voice drifted down the line from Hawaii and Blake was overcome with a bout of homesickness, "How are you?"

Trying to hide the lump in her throat and how her voice cracked, she shuffled on the bed, 

"I'm good, Mom."

There came a long pause, and for a second Blake wondered if the call had been dropped all together, if it wasn't for the sounds of the rolling ocean in the background, 

"How is New York?"

"It's great, Mom!" 

And there it was, yet another lie in a list that was growing ever longer day by day. But how can she break it to her parents that she has fucked up so momumentuously? Her Father, an ex Governor, a class renowned civil lawyer respected by his peers and colleagues. Her dear sweet mother a women's studies professor, two people that did not deserve her harsh cruel words as they tried to warn her against the bull headed stubborness of youth. How does she tell them that they were right, that he wasn't what he seemed on the surface, all fire and conviction, and she convinced they were going to be trailblazers and could change the world.

She hadn't even realised it was happening until it was too late. The first slap had been an accident, the second her fault, as conviction turned to spite and jealousy at her success as his work was ignored. And before she knew it, she had become one of the many people trapped in a similar situation with no escape. This sort of thing didn't happen to a lawyer's daughter, and most certainly not to the daughter of an expert academic in Women's Studies, a daughter who had been raised surrounded by strong and powerful women and ought to know better.

But somehow she had failed.

Her mother pauses again and Blake knows deep down that she can't keep up this pretence much longer and she hears the soft voice, utter on the end of the line, 

"Blake, honey, if something is going on, you know you can talk to us."

She leaves it hanging in the air and for a second she almost crumbles, about to spill all the guilt and shame she feels down the line, instead she casts a glance round the room, staring out of the window focusing on the flowered bough of a tree, taking a huge breathe and once again forces a betrayal past her lips, 

"I'm fine, Mom, just tired from work." She adds a fake chuckle, "These deadlines are kicking my ass."

Her mother continues, 

"Don't be working yourself too hard. I have enough with your father's nose to the grindstone..... Would you like to talk with him, sweetpea. He would love to hear from you!" 

And the thought of hearing his deep voice full of concern and reproach is too much as she slowly zips up the boot up her calf, 

"No, Mom... it's ok. He's probably busy."

"Nonsense, honey. He always has time for his kitten."

The pet name strikes a cord, evoking memories of his overly large and bear like hands aeroplaning her in the sky, swooping her up and down in the ocean spray,

She knows that she wouldn't be able to remain resolute, not in the face of his calm patience instead she replies with a little more force than intended, 

"No, Mom!" and the silence on the other end pains her as she adds a little gentler, "- I'm sorry.. I'm just... just.. I have a meeting to go to. A work thing."

"Ok, honey. I'll let you go. Give my love to Sienna." 

"I will." This time it is her turn to pause, before she softly utters, "- Mom?"

"Yes, honey?"

"I love you."

"We love you too, sweetpea. Try to come home for a visit soon, we miss you."

"I'll try, Mom. As soon as I sort out this mess."

And maybe her mother picks up on the loaded meaning as she says, 

"Honey, no matter how difficult things look right now, they always have a way of working out in the end"

"Thanks Mom." Pulling the phone away from her ear she catches a glimpse of the time and if she has any intention of finding out about her car before she has to make the hazily planned but not really planned meeting, she will have to be getting a move on. "- Mom, I'm sorry, I really have to go."

"Ok dear, call if you need anything. Aloha, love you."

And Blake ends the call with a huge sigh.

Stuffing her wallet, car keys and phone into her laptop bag, as she fully intends to polish a piece she hadn't had time to finish before she skipped town, she muses that at least the deadline part wasn't a lie. Besides, bringing the laptop along will give her something to do if the cowgirl doesnt show and if she is head down working if and when the blonde shows then she won't look like an over eager idiot

It's a weird win/win situation in her head.

Checking her reflection in the mirror, she tries not to let sneering words from a spectre of her past come to the fore, instead she tries to concentrate on the mission at hand. Go to the store, get data then find the mechanics and then onto the diner and some much needed food and maybe, just maybe some good company. Grabbing her sunglasses and letting herself out, she locks the door, slipping the keys into the front pocket of her bag and takes off down the stairs. As she arrives at the bottom, she finds the front desk empty and voices drifting from deeper in the house. Coming back round on herself, she steps through a door under the stairs and finds herself in a warm comfortable room full of cosy couches and an empty fireplace, besides which is a large TV set to mute as a dramatic scene plays out on the screen.

Maria is sat on the edge of one of the couches, hunched over the coffee table with a huge magnifying glass, finger poking and moving around jigsaw puzzle pieces on a large board. Without looking up, she asked, 

"Was the room to your liking, Mi Nina?"

Stepping further into the room, the journalist spies two open doors, through which is a warm conservatory awash with light, the only occupant, the flaxen haired woman Blake recognised as the lodger from the room opposite hers. She looks to be decked out in expensive jewelry at her wrist, ears and throat. She strikes Blake as almost ethereal with her snow white skin and regal air as she takes a delicate sip from a wine glass.

Returning her attentions to Maria, the journalist gushes, 

"Yes , Mrs Calavera. It was perfect , thankyou." Out of the periphery of her vision, she tries not to notice how the snooty woman watches her like a hawk, eyes raking up and down as if Blake's very existence is somehow offensive. Ignoring how it sends a rancor down her spine, she continues, " Your shower is amazing.... and the beds. .. I slept like a log."

"That's what I like to hear!" The old woman, thumps the bottom of her fist against the jigsaw puzzle and even from her vantage point the New Yorker can see that it doesn't quite fit. Maria asks, not unkindly, "- Was there something else you needed?" 

"Oh, no.. I wanted to let you know, I was heading out. Going to go see to the car and collect a few things and maybe afterwards grab a bite to eat."

Using her cane, the boarding house owner went to get to her feet, 

"I have a few pamphlets lying around somewhere,"

With a grin she can't contain, Blake stops her, 

"It's ok, Yang suggested some where called Dana's Diner." 

Maria sat back down with bark of laughter, 

"I bet she did!"

At that Blake hesitates as her earlier insecurities rush to the surface, that maybe this was a commonplace thing, helping stranded young women with an offer of a warm bed and good food, a tried and tested MO that bore the fruits of a roll in the hay.

And even as she thinks it, she cant help the competing thought that she is being completely absurd, that Yang has shown her nothing but kindness, that not behind every good deed is there a darker ulterior motive, yet it lingers like a cobweb annoyingly out of reach.

There's a fleeting pang of guilt. Just how stony has she become that she could think so harshly of the kindness of strangers and she wonders, Maybe there is some truth to the saying 

"Leave New York before it makes you too hard, and leave L.A before it makes you too soft!"

But she has learned that it pays to be cautious sometimes with these things as often nothing is at is seems. A lesson she has paid for dearly, ignoring at her own peril in the past. Instead she enquiries, 

"Are there any house rules I need to know. Like curfew or ...."

"No, Mi Nina, as long as you have your keys and of course be respectful of others in the house, but I'm thinking that's something I don't need to be saying to you as I doubt you'll be bringing back strangers."

At first Blake doesn't know what to think, is it an insult or slight on her until it dawns that Yang isn't exactly a stranger to this odd old woman. 

"I don't think I'll be bringing any guests back, Mrs Calavera."

And that comment does cause the old woman to turn and regard her with a look and the up turning of lips at the corners. It's almost as if she is about to say something but thinks better of it, instead she simply gives that cryptic smirk that Blake has witnessed some where before and she ponders if the Calavera's and the Xiao-Long's are somehow related. She regards the journalist for a long moment, saying almost knowingly,

"No, dear. .... Not this evening at least.. ."

The clock on the mantelpiece chimes quarter to the hour and as Maria turns back to the puzzle she adds, faux innocence lacing her words, 

"You best be off if you want to make your date!"

Feeling like a teenager with plans to defend, Blake obstinately replies, 

"It's not a date!"

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that!"

And now the brunette knows how Yang felt as Maria's cackle fills the room and follows her out into the receiving parlour.

x

Stepping out of the boarding house front door, she is grateful to find that the heat has abated somewhat and slipping on her sunglasses she sets off towards the sounds of laughing children on the green. Having taken notice of her entry into town she finds it relatively easy to locate the General Store. Ducking inside, she finds it almost Americana kitch, with its neatly stacked shelves and brands she barely recognised. She is momentarily taken aback by the price difference and she admires how the produce still remains in the wooden boxes with farmer's names soldered into the timber. It's the sort of aesthetic the hipster grocery stores and farmers markets of the NY had tried and failed to recreate and she admires how the fruits and vegetables here look so bright and healthy instead of shiny from too many preservatives.

Coming upon a long service counter taking up the whole left hand side that looks as if it has either been painstakingly restored or well taken care of from the days of when this town was probably part of the Old West, she spots an olde worldie looking till set behind what she thinks is woefully inadequate glass. At the far end, looking far more modern and robust is what she assumes to be the post office booths, with its tiny slits and the lip of a metal shutter, no doubt programmed to come down at the press of a button at the first sign of trouble.

Behind the counter on high shelves, behind a mesh cage are rows of liquor bottles and a cigarette machine reminding her that even in small places like this desperate people will be willing to do desperate things.

No one seems to be behind the counter, yet another sign that she is far from the well deserved paranoia of the big city and it's ever growing crime rate, instead there is a huge shiny and inviting brass bell. Looking around she tries to see if she can spot anyone, even going so far as to attempt to peer over the oddly wide counter. Finding no one and unable to ignore the child that is creeping up her spine telling her to do it, her hand darts out giving the button on top an experimental slap.

Unexpectedly, it is loud causing her to startle and she flashes out a hand in an attempt to stop it ringing.

She hears a female voice shout from the back, 

"I'm coming. I'm coming!"

If the store is Americana kitsch then the woman who appears is anything but. With dark skin and a mint green sharply cut bob with two longer strands at the front, wearing a fashionable white top in a style Blake is wholly unfamiliar with, she strikes the journalist as massively out of place in this backwater town, looking more like she belonged on the funky fresh streets of Tribeca with photographers and artists rather than behind the counter of a South Western produce store.

"What can I get ya?"

Her accent doesn't quite have the same twang, indicating that she is from somewhere that Blake would hazard is out of state. 

"A 300 minute phone card, please."

"That'll be 31 bucks!"

The young woman gives a long expectant look as if waiting for something and the journalist realises its her the store clerk is waiting on. Pulling out her wallet from the depth of her satchel, she apologises as she hands over the bills. It's not until the money is safely cloistered inside the till does the store clerk tear off card from somewhere out of view behind the counter and they both stand waiting for the till's receipt slot to start whirring, the paper coming out agonisingly slow. Blake can feel the woman eyeing her up and not in a wholly appreciative way. Ripping it off, the store clerk hands the card over wrapped in the receipt. 

"Anything else?"

Taking it from her grasp, the brunette asks, 

"Yeah , I was wondering if you would be able to point in the direction of the mechanics?"

At that comment, Blake is sure that the temperature in the shop drops by a number of degrees as the green haired store clerk scowls at her, muscles of her jaw working as if she was clenching her teeth, her tone comes out stilted and Blake has been on this merry go round long enough to hear the slightly threatening edge to it 

"And what would you be wanting with the mechanic?"

It doesn't strike Blake as protective, not coupled with the look she is on the receiving end of, and as much as she wants to let out her inner bitch at the intrusiveness of the question, she returns the gaze and simply states, 

"Car trouble."

Holding their staring contest, the store clerk finally relents, 

"Take a right out of here, keep going on The Thoroughfare. You'll find it. ...Eventually."

As the out of towner leaves, she can feel eyes still on her watching her every move and she isn't at all surprised to find as she casts a cursory glance back at the woman, that she hasn't moved an inch.

 

It's is as she navigating her second broad intersection, that she sees a huge red and white sign in a 1950's font announcing Dana's dinner on the left hand side., and she rolls her eyes at the cliche of it all. It seems to take up a huge amount of space even going to far as to wrap around the corner. There's numerous cars parked outside and from her vantage point, she can see through the large window people already lining the booths. There's no sign of the monstrous green tractor and she scolds herself that just because Yang is a cowgirl doesn't mean that it would be the only mode of transport she has use of. She laughs as she has a flash of an image of horses, tied up outside, saloon style like in the old black and white westerns her grandfather used to be so fond of.

Checking her phone, she presses on and it takes her a good solid 5 minutes, the quality of shop store fronts and bars becoming less and less grand until she spies the tell tale gas price sign with its huge white letters telling her that New York was most definitely full of shisters. There's an large and unusually wide concrete forecourt with an assortment of pumps set spaciously apart and the awning overhead that would lend some protection from the elements is strikes Blake as abnormally high. Eventually the concrete gives way to gravel and dry dirt, making up a huge car park of sorts. There's a mixture of vehicles ranging from ordinary cars and trucks, to tractors and garish farming machinery she wouldn't dare hazard to name.

Somewhere from round the side of the forecourt she can hear someone busy at work as tools clatter of each other in a steady rhythm. Picking her way over the oil stained concrete and in between the petrol pumps, she almost makes it to the edge before a large mottled brown dog bursts from the corner barking, showing its teeth but staying at a distance. She freezes, letting out a shocked scream, Its like no other dog she has ever seen with its thick shaggy coat and paws that put her in mind of a grizzly, not that she's an expert. The sound of metal banging upon metal stops as the dog continues to snarl and snap warning its owner of intruders.

Standing with her hands up, like she's about to be arrested by a cop and has no wish to make any sudden movements, Blake waits as the beast begins to circle, each loop getting uncomfortably closer, and she throws a prayer to whatever gods might be passing that this isn't how her story ends, torn to shreds by a rabid Cujo knock off in a tiny town in Oklahoma. 

Her voice coming out high pitched and reedy, she calls out, 

"Hello?.... Is anyone there?"

After what seems like an age, a man with thick dark hair comes round the corner in a pair of overalls tied by the arms at his waist and a oil stained tank top. From this distance she can't place his age but he moves with a slight falter on his left hand side. Paying no mind to the out of towner, he instead rough houses with the monster of a dog, tugging and wrestling it until it flops on its back legs in the air and pink tongue lagging out like it hadn't moments before been willing to tear her limb from limb.

From his crouched position he asks her in a brusque tone, 

"What do you want?"

She takes a small step forward only to freeze once more as she catches the dark cloud that passes over his features. Clutching the strap of her laptop bag as if it's some sort of life preserver, she offers, 

"I'm here about the car you towed in earlier today. . . From out of town.. Yang called it in."

At the mention of the cowgirl's name the man gets to his feet, the dark cloud gone instead replaced with a grimace. Silently he wipes his hands on one of his sleeves,and disappears back the way he came, leaving the journalist standing there in confusion and trying to get a hold of the rising tide of panic as the dog scrambles to its feet with a wag of its tail, half of its fur covered in dust and dirt. It throws up its head to sniff the air wafting from her direction, still refusing to budge until a high pitched whistle and a shout cuts through the air,

"Flopsy!" 

With her legs shaking down her skinny fit jeans and into her heeled boots, Blake churlishly thinks, 

"Flopsy?? Who in their right mind would look at that slobbering snarling hound and think of a name that more often conjured images of fluffy flop eared Bunnies?" 

Ignoring her, the dog took off at high speed, its paws spraying up dirt in its haste to get to its master.

Hesitantly edging closer towards the lip of the concrete, she peers round the corner.

The gravel car park spreads out further back and there is a level concrete driveway leading into a large garage. Inside she can see her off coloured brown car to one side and another up high on an auto hoist. From under her hood, the man shouts, 

"Are you coming or not? I haven't got all day!"

Cautiously sidling past the dog, never letting it out of her sight, she makes it through the wide bay doors and darts inside, keeping close to the wall until she can get her car firmly in between herself and the creature, hoping against hope that will act as some form of protective barrier.

Rounding on the front of her car, she finds him bent over, much in the same way as Yang earlier in the day, save this time he is working with wrenches and sockets, wiping at parts of her engine with a cloth. As she arrives, he looks up wiping his thick hair that had fallen into his face back with his forearm, 

"Well Dollface!"

The familiarity and use of the pet name sent a rancour through her stomach and she snarled, 

"Don't call me that!" 

The mechanic threw up his hands in mock surrender, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline and Blake scolded herself. She needed to be on this guy's good side if she had any intention of getting a swift job done and back on the road. Maybe the heat and the stress of the road trip was getting to her. Rubbing at her temple, she let out a huff, 

"I'm sorry.... It's not you, " She explained, "I just really hate pets names."

Offering out her hand, she asks, 

"Can we start over?.... Blake."

With a toss of his head, he seems to be contemplating, assessing the situation and she cant help feel that he is calculating how much he can take her for. The slight scowl never leaves his face as he takes her hand in his grease and dirt covered one, give it a hard but swift shake that almost threatens to tear her arm out of the socket. And if Yang's hand was calloused, his hand is as craggy as a mountain in comparison. His voice comes out gravelly, almost as if its a growl on pare with his dog, 

"Merc."

Taking her hand back, she forces herself not to wipe it on her jeans as he catches him watching her every action. Instead, the journalist keeps her voice light but no nonsense, 

"So, what's wrong with it? How much is it gonna cost and how long will it take?"

"Straight to business, eh? Got some place to be?"

Gritting her teeth at yet another intrusive question, she forces herself to remain cordial, 

"Something like that."

"And you're a friend of Yang's, you say?"

She gets the impression that he's trying to catch her out somehow. Seeing if she is easy to hoodwink. Standing up straight, she levels his gaze and confidently replies, 

"Yeah."

He begins searching through his overall pockets, and it's as if he is a different person. The grimace is still there, as is the gravelly quality to his voice, but the growly edge seems to have dissipated somewhat,

"I don't really be having the time to be seeing to this , as you can see I ain't exactly free." He nods his head back towards the garage full of four wheel motor bikes, a tractor, some strange contraption that looks like a bunch of large metal spiders and two pickups, "- But when she said she needed a check for a friend, I gave it the once over."

Fishing out a battered looking packet of cigarettes, he takes off towards the entrance and Blake follows at close quarters, only pausing when Flopsy looks up from investigating it's own backside. 

"Don't worry about him," Merc offers, "-He's a big softie, really!"

"Coulda fooled me!" Blake retorts causing the mechanic to laugh as he sits on an upturned crate.

He kicks out another crate towards her as he taps the soft packet against his palm causing the yellow tip to pop out. Rolling the lighter against his overall's, the flint sparks and even though his eyes squint against the flame as he takes a drag, lighting the cigarette, she can still feel eyes on her. Politely, she takes the offered crate, watching as the blue smoke curls up from his mouth and he flicks the metal lighter closed with a sharp click.

There is a long moment, peacefully silent as he stares out up the road that snakes out of the town, early evening light twinkling off buildings in the distance. Through a haze of light smoke, he starts, 

"Gonna level with ya, Dol...." He catches himself, "..-Blake... It's not looking good."

At that she frowns, 

"Is this why you had me sit down. To deliver the bad news?"

He chuckles, 

"Somethin like that.-" He takes another drag, "- It's shot I'm afraid. Looks like somethin got flicked up off the road and rattled around in there real good.. I could take it to pieces to make sure, but is gonna cost you extra and basically a waste of time."

"God damnit!" She wipes at her bottom lip in frustration, not exactly what she wanted to hear. "So what would you suggest to do?"

Leaning back, he stretches out his legs, rubbing his hands over one knee and Blake catches a twinge on his face, 

"It seems to me, if you're able to stick around," At that Blake physically tenses, "- Order a new one, which is gonna cost ya. Find a second hand one, which is cheaper but will take much longer as I aint free to be scouring junk yards myself, but I could put some feelers out to a few gear heads I know. Or if you're set to be wantin on your way, buy a new car all together!"

"And how much is that going set me back?"

"Realistically?" He flicks the ash off the end of the cigerette, " A new engine upper of 6000, a second hand anywhere from 2 upwards of 4 and that's not includin labour."

"And a new car?"

"8 to 10 at least, I'm afraid!"

And she can't hide the crestfallen look on her face as she draws her hair through her hands, no longer caring how it looked, at the news that it was looking increasingly likely she was now stranded in this backwater town as she totted up in her head exactly how much savings she had. She had nowhere near enough to afford a new car, and she could probably make the new engine but it would near enough clean her out leaving nothing left over for the rest of the journey. 

No point having the darn car if she couldn't fuel it or herself. Looking up, her eyes alighted on one of the many cars in the carpark, catching prices written in the window and she can't help the bubbling anger, that this asshole has the cheek to take her for a ride. She jumps up off her seat, pointing in the direction of the midnight blue car with its silver bumper.

"You said, 8 to 10 grand.... That one over there is 4! Why can't I buy that one?"

Cigarette hanging from between his lips, Merc follows her finger. He lets out a snort. The irate New Yorker whirls round on him, spitting, 

"What's so fucking funny?"

"Can't sell you that one or any of them for that matter."

"Why not?"

He casually flicks the butt end of the cigarette into a tin can full of sand, before fishing out yet another one and giving her a bemused grin. It's smug, almost mocking, in a way that pisses her off and she finds she really wants to slap it off his face. He takes his time lighting the second cigarette, watching how Blake fidgets with barely contained rage,

"Because.... " He holds out the cigarette, rolling it against the crate to get the end to an almost perfect point, infuriating her further, "- None of those cars will last.... Not on the journey you're hell bent on taking, at any road"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

This time he looks up, giving her his full attention, there's still a hint of a smirk at his lips, but it's somehow softer, 

"The bags in the back seat ain't exactly subtle!" She scowls at him, and she is about to give him a piece of her mind about privacy of customers being respected when he cuts in, "- Look, I'm not tryin to shaft you! ... Those cars are fine and dandy to be whizzin around town in... They might even make it to the next town over or even the next, but they are in no shape for long distance. It'll break down and you'll find yourself in the exact same situation as now, but broke."

Anger gave way to rising despair as she sat back down, despondently, on the crate, forearms on her knees and her mind turned over, unlike the trashed engine in her car, as she tried to think of what she could possibly do.

"There is another option.-" With a spark of hope, she looks up, "- I could buy the car off you. It's a good car, decent body work. There's nothin really wrong with it apart from the engine, and it would easy make a long road trip with a new one .... I could give you fair price, you pocket the extra cash. Then you could always catch a lift to the next town over with one of the out of town ranchers coming to the hog sale in a few days. Think there's a Greyhound service out of there."

It's as she's contemplating what to do in her predicament that tiny red and black mini, with rock music blaring out of the windows, careens into the car park sending up a spray of gravel as the driver slams on the brakes. Flopsy instantly gets up to greet the car, yapping and barking, his tail going 90 as he hops round in excitement.

The mechanic breaks into a broad grin, waving. Blake watches as a small girl gets out, suddenly jumped on by the huge dog that almost threatens to dwarf the pint sized driver, who makes a massive fuss, cooing,

"Whoose a good boy! Whooose a good boy!"

And it's as if the small girl's touch is magic as the huge animal dramatically flops up on the ground, waving his paws in the air and wriggling away as she rubs his exposed belly. 

As the driver approaches, ambling over the car park in heavy black boots, ripped tights, a tartan skirt and black vest top, Blake can see that she's not quite a girl but a rather small adult. Drawing closer with Flopsy close behind, the journalist catches red dyed red tips at the ends of a black bob and as the young woman smiles at Blake in greeting, she is left thinking that there is something familiar about the new arrival. The woman's voice comes out in an excited garble, 

"Did it arrive?"

The mechanics smile widens, 

"It did!" 

Bunching her hands in glee, the new arrival almost vibrates and she is about to take off into the garage when Merc, stalls her, 

"Ruby?"

At that name, Blake realises this pint sized dog whisperer could very well be the same Ruby, her savior and Penny spoke of. 

The tiny rocker girl spins round, eyes brimming with excitement, hopping from one foot to the other as if ready to dash off at a moments notice,

"Yes?"

The mechanic stubs out his cigarette, getting to his feet,

"You doing anythin for the summer?.... Cause if you're free, I could do with an extra pair of hands... Once you square it away with your sister and your dad, of course. Last thing i need is Yang ridin my ass."

And it falls into place where Blake has seen that smile before. This tiny motoring maniac is Yang's little sister and if she remembered correctly the nugget of information that Ruby is always late, then it means that she is too. Getting up, she dusts off the back or her jeans and hurriedly checks her phone and sure as shit, there it is 6:20 winking back at her. 

"I need to get going."

Merc pats her on the shoulder, 

"Alright... Take a few days to think it over and let me know what you want to do." He searches his pockets and pulls out a battered card, " Just give me a ring. If I don't pick up, just text. I'll get back to you at some point."

As he wanders off back into the garage with Ruby, she follows at close quarters until Merc throws her a look, and she explains,

"I need to get a few things out of the car." 

He nods in understanding before continuing on, he and Ruby talking animatedly as they head deeper into the building. Unlocking the trunk, Blake makes quick work of finding what looks on the surface to be a quite ordinary backpack. Unzipping it, she breathes a sigh of relief to find the contents still cushioned in their snugs. It's the second most expensive things she owns, a Canon EOS 7D camera with its standard lens and others she had purchased. 

Maybe if push comes to shove she can sell it to raise extra cash but the thought of parting with it pains her as the only part of this forced journey she has truly enjoyed was documenting some of the weird and strange places she had passed through and the sunsets she had seen. Zipping it back closed she slips it over her shoulder, glad that she had made the purchase of the light weight backpack and begins hunting for a plastic bag. Finding one, she stuffs her favourite oversized purple and gold college football jersey inside, some fresh underwear, another casual top, trainers and a pair of leggings.

Slamming the trunk closed with a bang, she locks it and she is about to leave when she doubles back, unlocks the drivers side door, fishes her leather jacket off the back seat and secrets the keys into the cubby hole in the middle console, no doubt a place where a seasoned mechanic worth their salt, or a car thief for that matter, would find them.

With one last look around, she finds neither Merc or Ruby forthcoming before she takes off out of the garage and heads back in the direction of town and hopefully towards a much better ending to the evening than how it started.


	4. Chapter 4

x  
x  
x

Outside the door of Dana's Diner, Blake takes a moment to collect herself, checking her phone to find it's 6:30 pm. She reminds herself once again that this isn't a date and Yang has no obligation to show. Though the journalist will admit she will be a little disappointed if she doesn't. She isn't the cowgirl's responsibility to entertain and she has already gone so far out of her way to help a random stranger. Besides, being a rancher, Blake can only imagine the amount of work that needs to be done in order to keep up the day to day running of a business that keeps no set hours and doesn't exactly run on the same 9-5 schedule of the average American's work week.

Pushing open the door, a bell peels announcing her entry and she is hit by a cool bank of air, the smell of food and the bars of a song, the singer crooning about shoes of blue suede and how the owner doesn't want folks to step on them. As she makes her way in further, drinking in how comfortably busy it is, a small woman with a short red bob and wearing a 1950's style pink blouse with rounded lapels, white apron tied round her middle and a flared white skirt whizzes past arms laden with trays of food.

Along the windows are red leather booths and white formica tables, most are occupied with customers enjoying some much needed grub. The black and white tiled floor gleams and lights play off the accents of chrome of the breakfast seats that dot along the service counter. From somewhere comes a shout, 

"TABLE 5, ORDER UP!" 

Placing down her wares at a table of a family with two hungry children, the short red head waitress, yells back, 

"RIGHT ON!" 

As Blake presses further into this slice of Americana, like she had seen in so many other small towns, the red head passes her, 

"Take a seat and I'll be with you as soon as I can, am lil swamped at the moment." 

Hunting through the booths she scours the walls looking for a plug socket. Its at the very back, just to the side of a break in the service counter, that she finds what she is looking for. Sliding into the booth, the New Yorker settles her bags and removes her laptop. There's no sign of the golden cowgirl so far, so she might as well attempt to get some work down, or at least look over her finances and see if there is anything that can be done about her current predicament.

Briefly she thinks, that she could always ask her parents but then she would be faced with having to admit why she needed the loan in the first place and that is not something she is yet ready and willing to face. They would more than likely demand that she get herself to the nearest airport and catch a flight back home to Hawaii. But this was her own mess and it was something she needed to fix for herself and she can't stand the thought of them having to bail her out. She's no longer a child, but an adult who had made bad choices and she had no one else to blame but herself.

Plugging in the laptop, she turns it on and as she's waiting for it to power up, she looks around for some sort of sign that this place has much needed wifi. Finding none, she instead reaches for the plastic menu, propped in between a 1950's style salt shaker and napkin holder, casting a glance round the diner. By the window as an old man, head bent pouring over a newspaper. The other customers are decked out in a mixture of styles ranging from normal teenage fare to much similar to Yang's. There's a two teenagers sharing a milkshake, probably on a first date, if the awkward body language and red hint to their cheeks and how they keep avoiding each other's gaze is anything to go by. Blake finds it all rather sweet and quaint and she supposes teenagers are teenagers no matter where you are in the world, but it's something she herself has never experienced She's pulled out of her musings at the arrival of the red head waitress. 

"Hello, my name is Trouble!" She points to a badge on her breast pocket, with the word in capital letters "- Welcome to Dana's Diner. I shall be your server for this evening. " The red head pauses , letting out a chuckle, "- It aint like anyone else is here to do it."

At that Blake smiles in reply. The waitress continues, 

"Is it just yourself or are you waiting for someone? Do you want to order? Do you need more time? I can give you more time. You need more time don't you?" The rapid fire questions threaten to overwhelm the brunette, who quickly looks back at her menu. "- I can always come back?"

"Errrm.... No.. emmm errm," Blake is trying to get the answers to all the questions in order. Should she order? What if Yang shows and she's halfway through scarfing down a burger, Or what is she doesnt show and Blake is sat here all on her lonesome like some jilted idiot. There's one thing that she needs right now, something that will make her look casual, "- Coffee, please .. for now... I just need.. Ermm.. Would you have wifi?"

Trouble casts Blake's laptop a glance, 

"We do! .. But we don't usually have folks coming in here to work.... They tend to go to the library." 

It's not unkind, just a statement. 

"I'm sorry, " Blake offers, "- I'm new to town.. And I fully intend to order some food.. it's just..." She looks up at the waitress apologetically, "- I don't know what I want and I might need just a little more time."

The waitress gives her a broad smile, 

"No, it's ok.... As I said, folks working in here is not something you see every day.... Except me, all I do is work!" And Blake comes to realize that this waitress seems to be the only person working the shift. 

"You super busy, eh?" 

"Yup! Just me on this evening! One of the girls just up and quit this afternoon without notice. Hightailed it outta town."

"I feel your pain." And she does on both levels, for the girl who hightailed it and the waitress left holding the bag of shit, "- Being a waitress isn't an easy job. It paid my way through college."

From the side counter, there comes a ring of a bell and a yell, 

"TABLE 7! ORDER UP!" 

Trouble yelled back, 

"Jesus Christ, Eddie! I'm coming!" She turns back to Blake, "- So a coffee and wifi?.... For now?" The journalist nods and watches how she scribbles something down on her pad, tearing it off and handing it over. "-There's the password....I'll have your coffee lickity split!" As she moves off she adds as an afterthought, "Gimme a holla when you're ready to order...."

Blake gives her a nod in thanks. 

She's head bowed down, fingers flying furiously over the keyboard when the waitress arrives back sliding the mug of coffee and a saucer onto her table as she passes by with a tray of ice cream sundaes. As she takes a sip of the bitter liquid, Blake can only hope that the coffee isn't an indication of the standard of food that is offered as it tastes a little burnt and its thick as if it's been sitting under the pot heat all day. Lacing it with sugar and milk to hide the taste, she cant help but look up every time the bell above the door goes or how her eyes flicker from the words on the screen to the bottom right hand corner and how the numbers on the clock wink there. 

It's been a good solid 25 minutes and she notices how the chaotic atmosphere has died down somewhat as customers come and go. Some simply nip in and collect white paper bags with Dana's Diner written on the side. Others, loners like herself, eat their food hunched over the service counter almost as quickly as possible before tossing notes on the counter top and leaving. Her own tummy gives a growl, no longer able to ignore the smell of food cooking wafting from the kitchen and she finds herself salivating.

As she is peering through the menu for a second time, the doorbell rings and Blake cant help but think she is like a freaking moon calf as excitement ripples through only to give way to disappointment as the mint green haired woman from the General Store enters, closely followed by a waif like, flaxen haired woman who is a carbon copy of the lodger in the conservatory back at Mrs Calavera's boarding house, except that she must be at least 20 to 30 years her junior and her hair is in an impressively long ponytail down past her ass, not an uptight bun. She's stunningly beautiful and moves with a poise that evokes fine dinner parties and museum fundraisers of the rich and affluent. 

Blake has covered enough of those sorts of things at the start of her career to recognise the type. The type whose perfume is money and who believes their opinion carries so much more weight than those around them due to a buffer of dollar signs. The sort who believe they are above the law and that fines aren't an issue, just a price tag.

The pair of women take two seats at the service counter and Blake hides an evil grin as she watches the flaxen haired woman struggle to get into the seat in her expensive looking heels. She continues to observe as the two women and Trouble engage in conversation. She hears Trouble announce, 

"Yup. Becky just up sticks and left, " The waitress starts busying herself with coffee cups and a small teapot, "- Said she's gonna make it as a big star, singing and she cant be held back any more."

The green haired woman snorts, 

"There's only one way Becky McAllister's mouth is gonna make her a star and it aint through singing, I can tell you that much!"

The flaxen haired woman beside her looks momentarily scandalised before all three of them break out laughing. It's in a small lull of the conversation and unable to ignore her stomach any longer, that Blake gives a tiny wave of her hand making her the focus of the three women. She watches how the General Store clerk leans over to the flaxen haired woman conspiratorially and she's certain that was it being said isn't wholly good as the rich girl throws a scowl in her direction. Trouble says something to the pair that is lost in the sound of the restaurant and as she makes her way over to Blake, the two women continue to watch from a distance. The waitress gives her a smile, 

"You ready to order now?"

Ignoring the pair of harpies at the counter, Blake replies, 

"Yes, please... Could I have a chilli dog and fries?"

Trouble makes a note, 

"Shake?"

"No, thankyou... A Coke instead, please!"

"What kind can I get ya?!

Blake is momentarily thrown by the bizarre question, 

"An ordinary coke, a cola?"

Nora grinned,

"Well why didn't ya say so?"

The waitress scribbles again, giving the pad an extra stab with her pen, before tearing it off and slipping it onto the table, 

"Won't be long. I promise."

As the waitress leaves, the New Yorker ducks her gaze, darkly thinking how she would love to tell the two women to take a picture as it will last longer, instead she returns to her work. There's a number of emails from the magazine her piece is for, asking for an update and she swiftly replies, assuring them that it will be ready in time for the deadline, that she had an out of town emergency.

With a roll of her neck and her shoulders, she begins reworking one particular paragraph, the wording not quite right and she almost doesn't notice how much time has gone past until her food arrives in nice red, plastic wicker baskets and grease proof paper. Briefly she looks up, throwing Trouble a polite thank you before returning to her work, absentmindedly nibbling on the crispy fries as she frowns at the offending paragraph.

And she must admit, the food is far better than the coffee as hunger takes over. It's as she takes a bite of the chili dog, full to the brim of trimmings and succulent weiner that the door pings and in strolls a battered cowboy hat on top of golden curls and Blake nearly chokes as she inhales the mouthful of food in elation. Yang is still clad in jeans, with her brown cowboy boots but she has swapped her shirt for a brown leather jacket. She ambles across the space to the counter like she has all the time in the world.

Blake is trying not to cough and splutter, having no wish for this to be the thing that draws the blonde's attention. The last thing she wants her to see is her red faced and choking on a sausage as she has no doubt that the cowgirl will have a field day, teasing her mercilessly. Taking a swift sip on the coke, she wipes at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and forces herself to look as if she hasn't been sat waiting for nearly 45 minutes, eager for a stranger to arrive. She trains herself to stare at her computer screen, but who is she kidding as she can't stop how her eyes dart over to the service counter, where the blonde has joined the two harpies, willing for her to look up and notice.

It's as she cast a sneaky glance over, she finds herself the focus of lilac eyes and Blake sharply looks back at her screen and begins to type. She's not even typing words just gobbledegook, asdfghjk, and she scolds herself for being such a huge disaster as her brain short circuits, neurons misfiring careening off in any direction like a steel ball in a pinball machine

You're a writer, god damnit, write!

There's a rising panic as out of the periphery of her vision she catches movement, 

"Oh my god, oh my god, she's coming over. What do I say?"

A shadow is cast over the laptop and the table's white surface and she hears that drawl that sends electricity down her spine and goosebumps her flesh, 

"Heya, there, Darlin.... Fancy meeting you here?"

It's light and teasing. 

"I see you went with the weiner......" Blake looks up at that to find the cowgirl watching her with an amused smirk. The journalist can't understand how she does it, but blonde keeps an entirely serious face, "- Can't go wrong with a spicy weiner and all the trimmings!"

The journalist returns the parry, taking the bait, 

"Not been much for weiners of late. Much prefer Tacos but they don't seem to be forthcoming on the menu." 

Yang slides into the seat opposite her with a grin, 

"Oh, I dunno.... In my experience, Tacos can be very forthcoming. But I guess it all boils down on who or how you ask!"

And now Blake doesnt know if this conversation is about the food but rather a massive euphemism and loaded double entendres, but there is no way she is backing down. She eagerly leans forward adding a purr to her voice,

"And if I wanted tacos, who and how would I ask?"

Yang's smug smirk flicks up the corners of her lips and Blake catches how her nose twitches like a rabbit as her eyes pinch at the corners, and the journalist thinks it has to be one of the most adorable things she has witnessed on her journey so far.

Instead of replying, the cowgirl cheekily plucks a frie from Blake's basket, popping it into her mouth, her gaze never leaving the New Yorker's. This close she can see that Yang is also wearing a light smattering of make up, and she is secretly thrilled that she hadn't gone overboard in a bid to make a better impression than the sweat dripping grease ball the cowgirl had met on the side of the road. Neatly clipped fingernails painted in a dusting of very pale pink that most certainly wasn't there earlier today, that Blake could recall, catch the light as Yang reaches for another frie, only to pause, 

"Hope you don't mind, I'm famished!"

"No, no," She pushes them towards the blond, "Help yourself, sharing is caring, after all."

Taking a few, Yang adds, 

"You can share mine. ... If and when they arrive."

And it's an exhilarating thought that causes Blake's belly to flip, that this woman is planning on staying for at least a little while and if taking the seat opposite her is any indication, she intends to spend it in Blake's company. With a tip back of her cowboy hat, the blond asks, 

"What ya workin on?"

And Blake begins to explain, against the backdrop of two singers telling each other that mountains and valleys are geographical formations that can be conquered with the right attitude and in between nibbling and sharing fries, that she's a freelance journalist, sometimes photographer. That the piece is due in a few days. Yang listens, nodding at all the right places and asking questions that aren't intrusive but out of genuine curiosity. When she asks to see some of Blake's photography, the brunette hesitates for a beat.

She doesn't want to have to answer question about why she is on this cross country trip. If she is asked, she could always lie, tell this generous cowgirl the same tall tale she had spread behind her when pressed, that she is on some voyage of discovery for a piece that she wants to write for a travel editorial, or just plain want to document the 'real' America, but she finds deep down that she doesn't want to lie, doesn't want to have to. In the places closer to New York she hadn't even given her real name, but gone by Tess or Mia until she had felt she had put enough distance between herself and the nightmare she was afraid would follow. But the enthusiastic look on Yang's face and the fact that she is the cause of it spurs Blake to throw caution to the wind, something she hasn't done in a very long time. Closing all her tabs and saving her work, she sets her notifications to not show in the corner chat box and pulls up the 'Road Trip' folder before spinning the laptop round for Yang to use.

She realises that she is offering a private part of herself and that this charming woman is the first and only person to have seen these shots, this part of her life, what she finds beautiful in the supposedly mundane. And she finds herself apprehensive yet eager to know what this stranger thinks. Eating the rest of her chili dog, she notices how Yang lingers on every one of them as if genuinely examining the moments of life captured there, like an aurelian, pinning butterflies forever to the board. Every now and then the cowgirl would look up, offering her a soft smile, until at one point, she states, 

"You really like your landscapes, dontcha?"

Taking a sip of her coke, Blake nods, 

" The countryside, it's so vast and wild. I have never seen anything like it.....Under the sky at night, looking up at the stars, you kind of realise how small and insignificant you really are."

Squeezing out some ketchup in to a small clear space on the grease proof paper, Yang takes another frie, dipping the tip in to the sauce,

"Oh, I dunno about that, darlin." She pauses as if carefully considering her next words, "- It's seems to me that it's quite the opposite... Even in the vastness of space, here we are hurtling through the cosmos, on a blue marble teeming with life and you're a live in this place and time..... In this exact moment .. ..You know the odds of that happening are a billion to one, right?...... I'd say that makes you pretty damn significant indeed!"

As Blake is trying to allow the depth of Yang's words sink in, the waitress arrives with a tray laden with fries, burger and a drink, 

"Here ya go, Yang, sorry for the wait!" 

The blond moves the laptop to a safe distance before unfurling a napkin on her lap,

"Is no worries, Nora!"

The waitress eyes flicker to the screen depicting a purple sunset on the horizon, a junker car in shadow beside a huge sign, 

"Oh wow!" As she slides the fries over, "-That's really pretty!" Blake ducks her head at the compliment, as the waitress continues, "-This blow in a friend of yours?"

Yang takes a sip of her drink, 

"Something, like that. Got into a spot of car trouble up the road."

Nora chuckles, as she tucks the tray under her arm, 

"And you came in like a Knight in shining armour, eh?"

The journalist watches as the blonde levels her gaze with the waitress, it's not a threat, more like a tinge of hurt and reproach, 

"Nora, leave it out!" 

The waitress shrugs, and instead asks, 

"So damsel in distress, you got a name?"

Leaning over the table, she begins powering down her laptop, and offers, 

"Blake." 

For a moment, Nora hovers expectantly looking between to the two women, until a voice asks,

"Hey, Nora, can I get a refill." 

Moving off, the waitress leaves the pair alone and as Blake watches Yang heartily tuck into her burger she is left to wonder yet again, if this is a common occurrence and if she is indeed anything significant at all.

In between bites, the cowgirl enquires about Hawaii and where's she from and Blake finds the words about her birth place slipping easily from her lips. Maybe because it helps her forget NY or maybe it's Yang, but she talks animatedly about the sea life and ocean, that once over she was a pretty good surfer and she doesn't laugh when Yang confesses that she has never seen the Ocean in real life, only photographs and documentaries.

"It's pretty hard seeing the Ocean when you're surrounded by corn fields."

And Blake has to make a confession of her own, 

"Up until a week ago, I had never seen a cornfield!"

Yang gives her a broad grin, 

"Well, I guess that's one thing off your bucket list!"

It's Blake's turn to laugh, 

"Don't think I ever had 'see a cornfield' on my bucket list, that I knew of," She never breaks eye contact, as she says it, "- But I'm glad that I did get the opportunity to get a real good look at not just one but two, when my car clapped out!"

Sharp as a whip, Yang gives her a wink, 

"They are two of my finest assets!"

And once again it's back to the playful flirting. Blake could quip that she is certain that she can think of two other 'assets' that could be classed as Yang's finests and if the devilish grin and mischievous glint in the cowgirl's eyes is anything to go by, she's being goaded or rather challenged.

But the New Yorker thinks she would rather not be so easily lead, having no wish to rush headlong through that wide open door, no matter how much she wants to, instead she slyly changes the pace, 

"Speaking of confessions, I do believe we have to discuss the pink elephant in the room?" 

She takes a wicked delight how lilac eyes fly open wide and there's a momentary slip in the infuriatingly hot smirk that's been playing at the corner of Yang's lips since she stepped through the Diner's door. Her voice comes out slightly strangled, 

"And what's that?"

Blake savours the moment, how this bold and overly confident, teasing cowgirl looks a little bashful, fiddling with the straw in her glass

"How someone could possibly believe that that 1908 edit is anywhere near as good as the 1902 original?"

She cheekily looks away sucking on her straw feigning innocence at what she has deliberately done, leading this woman by the nose, and through dark lowered lashes she watches the cowgirl stumble to regain some composure. Blake giggles as Yang waves a pointer finger in mock affrontage in her direction, 

"Lookit here, you!"

Grinning cat like round the straw, Blake takes a faux pompous air as there is a lull in the jukebox music, watching as the blonde wipes her fingers on a napkin and slips off her leather jacket. The journalist notes that Yang has swapped out the brown and yellow checked shirt for a slightly different one, only evident by the pattern. The muscles in Yang;'s forearms ripple and move as she rolls up her sleeves. It seems as if the blonde is preparing for the forthcoming rebuttal and Blake feels the thrill of an oncoming lively debate. It's been so long since she has had any conversation of substance that she has almost forgotten what it feels like.

Yang rests her elbows on the table, lilac eyes regarding Blake over the top of interlocked fingers with knuckles resting just under her nose. Placing down her glass, Blake licks her lips as she returns the look, the heady anticipation brewing between them in this small booth. The formica table is about to become their battle ground and she can imagine this as two great Generals of Ancient Rome and wonders if she would be capable of driving elephants through the geographical formations of the previous song in a bid to claim victory over her foe.

Resting her cheek in her right hand, Blake plays her ring finger over her lower lip allowing a teasing smirk form there.

Unfurling her fingers, the cowgirl begins, 

"The reason why, in my humble opinion, the 1908 edit is better than the 1902 original, is because its real. Truer to the source, if you will."

"Truer to the source?" Blake crosses her arms, "- 1902 To Build A Fire is quite literally the source!"

"But it's not, though!" Yang retorts, "- Not in the way you're thinking, anyways."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?"

"I have an idea...." At that Blake's eyes narrow, "-But I'd much prefer to hear you explain it before I decimate you!"

The journalist opens her mouth wide, letting out a playful and shocked scoff and she cant stop how the smile remains on her lips at the cheek and audacity of the provocation, 

"Decimate me?" She exclaims, "- I see someone is extremely confident in their debating prowess?"

Yang simply shrugs and with shake of golden locks, replies, 

"Can't help if it's true, darlin!"

At the use of the pet name she doesnt find the aversion or uncontrollable distaste that usually follows such things but rather that from this cowgirl she doesn't wholly mind. She has no idea if it's just her on the receiving end of such an honorific or rather just something that is part of Yang's everyday vernacular and quite oddly she has a surprising thought that threatens to derail her carefully crafted reply, that she hopes it is the former rather than the latter.

Yang leans forward, dropping her voice an octave, 

"Cause if you don't understand the source, you don't have a leg to stand on and I have nothing to worry about!"

She casually leans back, as if she hasn't quite literally slapped a gauntlet on the table and Blake takes a second to think, that maybe this cowgirl has sent forth her infantry in a bid to draw the New Yorker out but is hiding her cavalry in the treeline somewhere and a third thought strikes her, that she finds it incredibly alluring,

"I understand the source material!" Blake replies, indignantly. "- It's a cautionary tale. Man v's the Wilderness, lives to tell the tale... The 1908 edit was written at the whim of publishers who wanted the macabre because macabre sells and Jack London needed money!"

"That maybe true, and yes you understand the literary source, but not 'the source', " Yang slapped the table, "- And that My Dear Watson, is elementary!"

Blake deadpanned, 

"Did you just quote a fake quote, often wrongly attributed to the source material, to make a point about me understanding the source material but not 'the source' material?"

The cowgirl gave her a smug and triumphant smile, 

"Yup!"

Nibbling on her bottom lip in mounting frustration, the journalist sat back from the table, trying to ignore the sudden pulse of electricity down her stomach and her spine, as slightly mocking lilac eyes danced. She gasped, 

"I can't believe you!" She wriggled in the booth, from her shoulders down her spine as she tried to get herself comfortable as the notion that she may have very well underestimated her opponent began to creep upon her. "- Ok.... what is, in your humble opinion, 'the source material'..." And she genuinely does want to know what the blonde thinks. What is it that she has missed out on? What is it that the cowgirl knows that her ridiculously expensive education failed to cover? She does not mean it peevishly at the potential of her defeat, but out of honest curiosity, "- I'm all ears."

The cowgirl shuffles in the booth, back leaning against the side and flicking up her legs outstretched on the leather seat as her fingers play up and down the straw, languidly stroking in a motion that distracts the journalist. 

“Mother Nature!” Yang says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Blake finds herself leaning forward on her elbows on the Formica table in burgeoning fascination, hanging on her every word as she begins to explain, “- The 1908 edit is far truer to the source, in this case the aforementioned Mother Nature, as it tells the audience the folly of ignoring those far more experienced in the terrain and the elements. That you disrespect Mother Nature at your own peril.-” There comes a tinkle as ice plays off the side of the glass, “- She doesn’t teach you a lesson, patting you on the back and sending you on your merry way. She will straight up kill you!” Yang pauses for a moment, taking a sip pf her drink, “- And not because she is driven by the human condition, which we see in the 1908 edit when the protagonist attempts to kill his dog to survive or the arrogance of ignoring the old timer, but simply because it is what she does when you fail to prepare and woefully underestimate her. There are no second chances out there, darlin. If you show a lack of caution you will end up being good for only one thing and that is bear food!”

As Blake sits back allowing the eloquence of the answer sink in she realises that this woman across from her has a far better understanding of ‘the source material’ than she or any of the academics cloistered behind their walls in hallowed halls of learning and piles of books because it is something that she deals with on a day to day basis out on the vast plains of the ranch. And the journalist finds that she really doesn’t have a leg to stand on as to go on about sentence structure or themes would look flimsy at best in the face of a take that she, or any of her classmates for that matter, had never truly considered so hell bent on coming at it from a literary standpoint. Instead of mounting a defense as she sees, as Yang warned her, that her infantry is dashed and cavalry decimated, she admits defeat and parts, 

"I never thought of it that way!"

Yang gives her a beaming smile and rather than gloat or make a mockery of Blake and her lack of understanding of the world outside the walls of the big city, she simply asks, 

"Would you like to share a dessert?"

She's caught off guard at how quickly this woman can turn on a sixpence from delivering deep insight to playful and breezy. The look of hopefulness on the blonde’s face reminds the journalist of the teenagers in the earlier evening sharing a shake on their first date and she wonders if this sweet and generous offer is similar ritual, or a peace offering. She is about to reply when there comes a shout from the direction of the service counter, 

"Yang?" The flaxen haired rich girl, approaches, "-We're heading to McTavishes, you coming or......"

The end of the question lingers and Blake can feel the scrutinising look she's being given very similar to the one she had received from the carbon copy in the conservatory back at Mrs Calavera's boarding house, that she is a bug to be squashed. Sitting back to rights, the cowgirl grabs the plastic covered menu, 

"Was just about to order dessert.... I'll catch up later, yeah?"

There's a haughty quality to the flaxen woman's stance as she gives a toss of her head and a hint of annoyance lacing her voice,

"And what about Pyrrha?"

With a twinge of regret that this might be the end of their impromptu rendezvous, Blake stammers, as she realises that she has been quite rude and if she was to admit, a little bit selfish, hogging this woman's time. Of course she would have plans, that a blow-in's arrival would have scuppered.

"Am I keeping you from your friends? ..... I'm sorry... It's ok.... Have taken far too much of your time... I should really be going... " 

She leans slightly out of her seat reaching for her laptop about to pack it a away when a cool hand snakes out, laying gently on her wrist and Yang says in a voice that causes Blake to falter, 

"No... It's ok... Please... Stay.... At least for dessert."

There is a soft vulnerability there, replacing the brash confidence that she has seen so far, that hints at something the brunette can't quite put her finger on. It's not desperation or over eagerness. Maybe she isn't the only one who doesn't want this evening to end just yet either? At the request, Blake sits back down.

The flaxen haired woman continues to glare between the two seated women. Ignoring her, Yang waves over the waitress and as Nora quietly begins to collect the food baskets and remnants of their dinner onto a serving, Yang calmly explains, 

"Weiss, I texted Pyrrha earlier... She's cool... And I said.... I'll catch up with you later."

"You sure?"

"I promise!"

Weiss gives a small smile, that doesn't quite reach her eyes, 

"Ok, we'll see you later."

The flaxen haired woman flounces back to the counter, collecting her jacket and takes of out of the door with the mint green haired woman in tow. Blake offers once more, 

"It's ok you know. If you need to go."

Yang shakes her head, with a grin, 

"They can survive without me a while, besides, I can talk to them anytime. It's not often I get to converse with a big city slicker, photographer surfer chick!" The cowgirl pauses, "-Unless, of course you want me to go?"

"No... No." Blake rushes to reassure her, and she realises that she is coming across over eager but can't find it in herself to care, as she reaches over the table, placing her hand on top of Yang's giving it a gentle squeeze, "- I'm loving your company.. In fact, I think it's the first decent conversation I've had in weeks."

She notices how the cowgirl doesn't move her hand, but turns it upwards so that Blake's fingers rest lightly against her own. A colour begins to spread over the blonde's cheeks intermingling with the light dusting of freckles, gained from being under the intense summer sun. There comes a small cough and Blake retrieves her hand as Nora slides a banana split on to the surface of the table before darting back round the corner and out of sight. 

Sitting up straight, Yang takes the long tapered spoon and begins to search for another, lifting up the sundae from its serving plate and Blake observes how eyes narrow a little and shell pink lips pucker slightly and she has a brief flash of wondering how they would feel against her own. The cowgirl leans sideways out of the booth peering in the direction the waitress had gone before giving a miniscule twitch of her nose and a sickle of a grin.  
.  
Lilac eyes alight back on Blake as she announces, 

"Looks like there ain't anythin for it, darlin, " She holds up the spoon, winking in the light, "- Hope you don't mind sharin and swappin spit, as they say."

And Blake means to say something else but her previous thought refuses to cease and she ends up saying, instead. 

"I wouldn't mind swapping spit with you at all."

As her brain catches up with her ears, she inwardly cringes as she realised that she has said it out loud. The journalist face palms in embarrassment and the blonde breaks into a rambunctious laugh that causes the remaining customer to stare. Blake is burning from the tips of her toes to the tips of her ears as Yang grins, 

"That's good to know!"

"Oh my god! I am so sorry.. That came out wrong!" 

"Maybe you did get a touch of the sun fever?" With an altogether too knowing look, the blonde scoops up some of the ice cream on the end of the spoon, holding it out, "Need a lil somethin to help cool you down?"

Leaning over the table, Blake wraps her lips round the scrumptious offering, enjoying how Yang's eyes linger on the action and she flickers out the tip of her tongue for extra measure. And as they share the ice cream, each taking a turn Blake comes to understand that she is now part the alumni of this ritual that has been duplicated in one form or another in every small diner in America, stretching over decades. As they are finishing up the last soft flesh of the banana they hear Nora shout, cutting into their reverie, 

"Guys! I don't care where you go, but you can't stay here!"

Lost in their own world they hadn't noticed that they were the only customers left in the restaurant as Nora worked a mop back and forth over the tiles and pushing a large industrial mop bucket with her foot. 

"Aww, sorry Nora!" 

The waitress flopped onto a seat, rubbing at the back of her calves, 

"Normally I wouldn't mind, but I've been on my feet since 11 this morning and it's now, " She looked at the clock on the wall, "- 10... I'm even too exhausted to join the girls."

Yang sidled out of the booth and Blake began to hurriedly pack away her laptop and collect her things. It was as she was slipping into her jacket that she heard the tell tale tingle of a the registrar. Turning she caught the cowgirl slipping her wallet in to her back pocket. Frantically she began scouring the table to realise there was no sign of her order receipt and a sneaky suspicion began to form.

"Yang?"

The cowgirl ambled over,

"Darlin?"

"Did you see the my order receipt."

She reached for one of Blake's bags, 

"Don't worry about it... It was my treat."

"But you didn't have to."

"No , but I wanted to!"

She was about to protest further until she felt a tiny hand at the small of her back, ushering her over the floor and out of the door and the petite waitress said, 

"Go on, go on... You can have your domestic outside." 

On the street, Blake turned to vehemently deny that they were having anything of the sort, when the door closed in her face, the waitress flipped round the sign from 'open' to 'closed' and gave the pair a bright wave before snapping the blinds shut, blocking her from view.. The cowgirl slips her hands into her jacket pocket and with an all together too charming smile, she asks, 

"Please, can I walk you home?"

Taking a huge lungful of air that almost tastes sweet, not full of exhaust fumes or stale from being to heavy and clositerd by skyscrapers, Blake feels lighter than air itself as she replies with a bright smile, 

"Lead the way."

And under night sky in a mixture of dark pinks and light purple giving way to deep blues as the last vestiges of the Summer's day lose their grip and the street lights begin to cast their glow on the pavement, two strangers began to meander towards their destination, neither in a hurry but rather deliberately taking small strides safe in the knowledge that they will both get there, reveling in each others company.


	5. Chapter 5

Heat emanated from the pavement and red brick buildings as the pair ambled along the sidewalk. The Thoroughfare was quiet in the early night and they passed the odd person on their own journey. A light breeze had picked up giving a much needed soothing coolness to Blake's slightly sunburnt cheeks. Slowly they made the end of the street that opened out onto the green and as Blake went to take the left turn that would lead to Abuela Calavera's Boarding House, the cowgirl reached out for the sleeve of her jacket, gently tugging it. 

"Would you like to come sit for a whiles?"

With a grin, Blake nodded, 

"Sure."

Blake's heart skipped a beat as the cowgirl slipped her hand into journalist's, gently leading her over to a bench and encouraging her to sit. The wood was warm under her backside from being under the sun all day. Putting down her belongings, she slid closer to the blonde.

Soft light from the overhead street lamps leant their illumination, casting them in a warm glow as the sun kissed the horizon goodnight in shades of purple giving way to midnight blue, the tendrils of colour intermingled, watched over by the moon up high and bright in the clear sky. Stars overhead twinkled, each one with many names and stories of origin, some lost to the eons of time, others written in stone. They winked and danced with each other on a path to who knows where, their destination a secret unto themselves.

Occasionally the peaceful silence would be broken by the calling of birds hidden from view as they set out on their evening hunts whilst others remained in their roosts, warm and safe with their young.

Blake listened in rapt attention as Yang quietly parted to her which call came from which type of bird, barely a whisper as if she was afraid of disturbing them. The only birds the journalist had heard on the streets of New York were pigeons and she had heard that the city had peregrines high up in the lofty sky scrapers but she had never seen one herself.

Small tiny black shadows swooped and dived, like acrobatic ninjas, dancing with each other over the wide open green. Blake let out a squeal as one dive bombed her, twisting at the last minute and taking off back to it's companions. Blake ducked trying to hide in the blonde's shoulder, 

"What the hell is that?"

The cowgirl let out a rolling laugh, 

"It's a bat!"

The New Yorker's eyes followed the shadow ballet in wonderment, watching how they pirouetted in the air, as Yang continued, 

"They're harmless, darlin."

Blake sheepishly patted her hair in a bid to check that none of the critters were nesting in there as she muttered darkly, 

"Tell that to the Joker!"

At that Yang, chuckled, 

"Speaking of Jokers, how did you get on with the car?"

The journalist sighed deeply, 

"Not good, by all accounts."

She began to explain, 

"Looks like I need a new engine, either brand spanking new, or wait for a while until he finds one, if he manages to find one. Either way, I'm screwed."

"How so?" Yang enquired. 

And Blake takes a moment. Does she share her woes with a stranger, that a new engine would clean her out, that waiting however long for a second hand one would eat into her funds either way. For every day she stayed at the Boarding House would chip away at her meager finances and as it stood now, she had no way to replace them. She has no wish to look pathetic, to look like a total disaster at adulting. Instead, she says, 

"He wouldn't sell me one of the cars on the lot either." There's a hint of dark suspicion there, lingering in her tone, "-Said they wouldn't make it far. That I'd end up stranded in the next town in the exact same situation."

Yang leaned back against the bench, stretching out her legs, hands stuffed in her pockets, affording Blake a flash of the taut stomach under the clingy white material of her vest top as she casually replies, 

"Sounds to me like he was doing you a favour, darlin."

Blake begins to pick at the grain in the wood with one finger contemplating the cowgirl's words. That maybe there was truth and merit to what the mechanic had told her, that if Yang didn't think he was trying to pull a fast one, then maybe he wasn't. With a toss of her head, Blake half turned in her seat, 

"He did give me another option."

Yang smiled at her, 

"Oh, yeah? What was that?"

And for some reason, Blake hesitates as she drinks in this woman's smile, so bright it's almost blinding, her golden hair haloed by the over head street lamp. When she speaks, she finds it laced with a hint of regret, 

"He said I could sell him the car and hitch a lift with an out of towner at the next hog sale. Get to the next town over and take a greyhound."

The peaceful silence shifts to something else as she watches the smile on the cowgirl's face falter, who looks at the ground in a bid to hide it, using her palms to lift herself slightly off the bench so she can tuck her legs back underneath the seat.The journalist observes how Yang almost seems to curl in on herself as she utters, 

"If you decide that, I know a few good guys from out that way." Blake picks up on a strange timbre to the cowgirl's voice as she continues, "- You'll be wantin to go to Harlow, is a good few towns oe'er."

There's inches between them but to Blake it seems further than the miles she had put between herself and New York, except this is a distance she doesn't want. In a bid to bridge this bizzare gap she finds she is increasingly disliking with every second it hangs there, she says, 

"I haven't decided what I am doing yet."

Still it isn't enough as the slight frost remains, the warm balmy evening unable to thaw it. A loud ping breaks the awkward silence and the journalist watches as Yang fishes her phone out of her pocket, checking it. With an audible sigh, Yang gets to her feet, staring out over the green. The New Yorker's stomach drops as the tension lingers and she is baffled of how to break it. Picking up Blake's belongings, the cowgirl murmurs, 

"C'mon City Slicker... Lets get you home."

The lack of the previous pet name replaced with the general term stings like a sharp slap and Blake trails behind, following the blonde back to the boarding house. As they approach the gate Blake rushes in front of the cowgirl, blocking her way, 

"Yang?" The blonde stops and the journalist asks with concern and confusion, "- Did I say something to upset you?"

And back is the smile, but this time it doesn't quite reach the usually dancing lilac eyes, 

"Not at all!"

And Blake doesnt know why she cares how their evening will end or why she feels the need to give this woman reassurance, her hand reaching out of it's own accord to rest lightly on Yang's forearm and she softly repeats, 

"I said, I haven't decided what I'm doing, yet. I need a few days to mull things over."

It doesn't pass the journalist's notice when there comes an almost hopeful vulnerability to the reply,

"A few days, eh?" Yang leans against the railings and Blake finds that she is once again under an intense gaze. The silence between them broken by the sound of the toe of Yang's battered cowboy boot tapping off the stonework as if she is contemplating her next words carefully, "- I could give you my number?" And the cowgirl begins to ramble, "- Ya know, if you need to get ahold of me? In case you 'do' decide to hitch a lift or...."

Blake begins to hurriedly search through her laptop bag, cursing in her mind's eye as she hunts through cables and everything else until her fingers clasp round the smooth plastic, 

"Yes!" 

It comes out loud, almost a yell, and in her rush to get it out the phone slips out of her fingers skittering over the pavement.

The cowgirl ducks to pick it up, holding it out for Blake to unlock. She finds she is like a school girl as she watches the cowgirl's face cast in a odd yellow glow from the phone's backlight, fingers flying over the screen. The previous inviting smile is back on Yang's face as she holds out the phone and the brunette can see the digits secure in their place, under the name Yang with a small cowgirl emojie next to it. Blake let out a small laugh.

From in her pocket, Yang's phone pings again. The cowgirl looks almost apologetic as she hands over Blake's rucksack and plastic bag, 

"I'm being summoned."

Blake inches closer, steeling herself as her fingers clench painfully around the satchel strap, 

"Thank you for a lovely evening. I really enjoyed myself."

Yang stuffs her hands back into her jacket pockets as she bashfully replies, 

"Me too, darlin."

Taking a deep breath, the journalist darts forward, pressing a soft kiss to a surprisingly cool cheek.

She feels the cowgirl freeze and her mind runs a mile a minute as she pulls back. Had she read this wrong? Was it ok to show thanks in that way? In New York everyone air kissed their goodbyes, god of course things were different out here. How could she be so stupid?

Yang's head remains bowed and there's a beat before she looks up. Her voice comes out strangely thick, yet there is a sickle of a grin there, 

"I'll be seein you around, darlin?"

Letting out a shaky breath, Blake returns the smile, 

"Most definitely.

Another annoying ping breaks their moment, Yang gives an incline of her head and remains where she is as Blake lets herself into the boarding house. As she closes the door, she catches a small wave from the cowgirl. 

Closing the door she lets out a long sigh. 

What on earth are you thinking, Belladonna?

And that's the thing, you're not! A voice in her head, that isn't hers, mocks in reply.

Isn't that the first signs of going crazy, to hear replies to your own questions?

She chases it away, determined to bask in the fuzzy glow the night had evoked. To hold onto it as long as possible instead of allowing a phantom she's been trying to shake take it from her.

As quietly as she can, she makes her way through the silent house, tiptoeing like a cat burglar careful of the sound her heels might make on the floorboards and she is thankful when she finally makes it onto the carpet of the hallway. She creeps past the doorway of the other lodger and slips the key on the lock, very gently easing it open just enough to slip through and into the room. 

Once inside, she slips off her boots so as not to make any unnecessary noise for whomever is in the room beneath and begins unloaded her belongings from her various bags. She secrets her camera in the wardrobe and plugs in her laptop, thankful of the extra long cable so it reaches the bottom of the bed. Turning it on, she leaves it to power up as she strips out of her clothes and takes herself off to the bathroom to remove her makeup and brush her teeth.

Slipping into the over sized college football jersey, she revels in the silky feel of the material against her skin. Typing in her password, she is ecstatic when she finds the wifi in the boarding house is open, needing no password. Opening up a tab, she browses a few sites, reads the global news before finally checking her emails. There's a reply from the editor of the magazine the piece is for wishing her all the best, hoping the out of town emergency isn't too bad and that the snippets she has sent are up to par.

Sitting cross legged on bed browsing through the internet, the thought strikes her, that in this room with fresh bed sheets that smell of lavender mingling with the scent of flowers through the open window sitting in nothing but an oversized T after being on a none date, in this moment, it's the first time she has felt almost normal in weeks, maybe months even and her thoughts turn to what on earth she is going to do.

But her predicament is far from normal. And the school ma'am devil with it's half moon glasses returns. 

'Maybe a dose of normality is exactly what you need?'

But she can't have that, no matter how much she wishes it.

Fingers fly over the keyboard as she types in the make and model of her car and she reads with dismay the prices that wink back at her. There's the added cost of shipping and handling to consider. She types in the State and name of the town and finds that due to how far it is off the beaten track, the shipping is an extra 1000 and it could take anywhere between 3 weeks to 6.

She attempts to find a second hand one but it's slim pickings, Auto websites with tiny advertisements slighter steeper than Merc had suggested, that also needed to be collected and removed by the buyer, something she will need the time pressed mechanic's help with as she has no idea what she is looking for or knows anyone who might be able to lend a hand.

With a sigh, she checks her bank account online to find she has less funds than she initially thought, the stop offs at diners, gas stations and crappy motels having mounted up on her cross country trip. Though she had been very frugal she hadn't thought to factor in bank charges for using her card so much or that her health insurance company had taken a premium that had completely slipped her mind.

Quickly she tried to calculate how much staying at the boarding house would cost, plus food on top. The numbers flying through her head, intersectioning with images of her impending destitution threatened to engulf her. 

She couldn't afford to stay here any length of time, not without replacing the outgoings with something. 

Slipping off the bed, she padded over to the window looking out over the garden bathed in bright moonlight, taking huge lungfuls of the fragrant air in a bid to remain calm and allow herself to think. It was looking increasingly like selling the car and hitching a lift was her only option, but that brought it's own issues, like how could she possibly carry all her belongings? 

Feasibley, she couldn't, she would have to dump them or get rid of them somehow. She doubts that, unlike New York, this small town would have a thrift store or jumble sale that would be willing to pay for her extra clothes, not that she had a lot and she was still left with her collection of books that she had painstakingly gathered over the years. If push came to shove she supposed she could donate them to the local library. 

Gripping the window sill, she cast her eyes down to the lawn below, eyes landing on the wicker chair and a thought struck her. 

Maybe there was a way she could supplement her income. 

Dashing back over to the laptop, she opened up Documents and breathed a sigh of relief when a folder winked back at her and she whispered a prayer to whatever Gods might be passing over head that she had the foresight not to delete it. Connecting her phone to the laptop, she transferred over the document and whilst she was waiting for it to complete her finger hovered over the name with a cowboy emojie next to it. 

Barely 30 minutes had passed and she was already considering sending a blonde a message, like a giddy school girl and her crush. As her finger lingered the icon in the top corner flashed reminding her that she was a full grown adult with very real and adult problems that she could ill afford entangling an unsuspecting stranger in them. 

The school ma'am devil wickedly flicks its tail.

But this wasn't exactly entanglement, was it, she tells herself, it's more like a cat's cradle. Simply two people who might relish each others company swapping phone numbers, nothing more. 

To text Yang so soon would suggest otherwise and though deep down she yearns to send a message, to gush how much she had enjoyed herself, that she couldn't wait for their next encounter, she instead musters her resolve and concentrates on what she can do to help herself, setting an alarm for in the morning, early enough to be ready for breakfast and get a good head start. 

Sliding the phone under the pillow, she snuggled down into the duvet, drifting off to the sounds of leaves in the trees caressed by the breeze, cocooned in the scent of lavender, with a grin on her face

For the first time in months she actually had a plan.

 

-X-X-X- 

 

Blake wakes bright and early and it strikes her that for the first time in months she feels refreshed and invigorated to start the day. Making quick work of showering, bopping around the room to some quiet music on her laptop, she slips into a light t shirt, leggings and battered comfy trainers. 

Checking her phone to find a comfortable 8:15 winking back, she is momentarily distracted by a tiny yet bold bird on the windowsill, whistling a little tune. Cautiously, so as not to frighten the brave defender of the roost, she approaches. It bobs its head and gives a flap of tiny wings, twisting it's head this way and that letting her know that it is keeping an eye on her. As she makes it to the windowsill, it retreats onto a nearby branch of a tree, it's browns almost lost in the Summer plumage of leaves and flowering buds. 

Stretching she leans against the soft wood watching the tiny bird as it stalks back and forth along the branch and puffing up it's yellow chest that catches the light The sun is already starting to make it's ascent into the bright blue sky that is occasionally broken with wispy white clouds accompanied by a cool early morning breeze. 

It is almost as if she and the staunch defender are the only living creatures on the planet until she catches movement in the garden below and the Boarding house owner comes into view with a garden hose. The New Yorker leans out of the window and much like a musical set in the Big Apple, she cheerfully waves and calls out, 

"Morning, Mrs Calavera!"

The old woman looks up, peering from under one wrinkled brown hand unable to spot where the greeting has come from. Pushing herself of the window sill, Blake collects her laptop, tucking it under her arm and stuffs her phone in her back pocket before letting herself out of the room and makes her way through the house out into the garden.

As she steps out onto the blue slate under the dense foliage of the pagoda, Maria looks up from spraying some of the potted plants dotted along the covered walkway as Blake announces her arrival,

"How are you this morning, Mrs Calavera?"

"Thought that was you," She says in greeting "- Couldn't see you from down here..." The small woman returns to her plants, preening the odd leaf here, gently stroking a brightly coloured flower there. "- How did you sleep?"

With a light satisfied sigh and a wide stretch, the brunette replies, 

"Really well." 

"And your date?"

"It wasn't a date!" A spry gaze lands on the journalist and Blake begins to feel that she is being scouted out and already she can feel a blush creeping up over her cheeks, "- But...I had fun. Thank you for asking."

Maria lets out a loud chuckle as she moves further along the patio, tugging the green hose behind her as if it is some unruly snake and she it's charmer,

"Good company and a good night's sleep two things that, in my experience, are good for the soul!"

Blake watches the slightly hunched over woman peer up at the hanging baskets and then round in circles as if looking for something before her eyes, magnified by her thick glasses, land on the New Yorker. Coming to a decision she offers out the hose, 

"Please would you be a dear and get the rest of them and after I'll see to breakfast?" 

The younger woman swaps out the laptop for the hose and begins to spray the hanging baskets under the watchful gaze of the avid gardener who is being careful not to get caught in the light sprinkle. She moves along opposite Blake, who carefully waters the hanging baskets working her way back towards the house. 

"Would you like me to do the vines too?" She gestures to the older woman with the nozzle. 

"If you wouldn't mind?"

Being liberal with the water, she marvels at the myriad of colours that shimmer in through droplets caught in the sun. All the colours of the rainbow twinkling against the backdrop of the garden in full bloom and a sense of peace washes over her as she works. The whole ensemble puts Blake in the mind of the lush rainforests of the Amazon, with the healthy vegetation and the dripping of the water intermingling with the chirping of the birds.. It is a far cry from the grey offices that she is used to with its infectious sense of dread and pressured anxiety leaping from cubicle to cubicle, sweeping like a bush fire, as a deadline loomed.

Maybe there is some truth to the articles in fancy lifestyle magazines claiming that country living reduces stress, working with the land and your hands is good for your mental well being? But she supposes that only applies to people who have enough money to keep their head above water as she has often heard old friends, artists, writers, actors stressing about covering rent, or maybe it only applies to people actually turning dirt and tending to fields?

Her thoughts drift to Yang as she watches the arc of fine mist glisten on the green leaves, droplets slowly rolling off the tips of the leaves as they gently bow under the slight strain before dripping on the slick wet blue slate patio that is now almost black.

She can only hazard a guess at how long the cowgirl must have been up by now, more than likely rising when the sun gently kissed the eastern horizon good morning. She imagines her pulling on those well worn but supple looking cowboy boots before taking off, settled at her own pace, to a barn no doubt followed by a loyal canine companion excited to see the adventure of the day.

Blake imagines what she would be doing right now, in comparison, if she was back in the city. She would more than likely have just been squashed like a sardine onto a train packed with other sleep deprived sardines, avoiding eye contact and mumbling barely coherent apologies as toes got stepped on and elbows collided with ribs, being coughed and sneezed on or a nearby fellow commuter might have BO or bad breath. If it was a really bad day some asshole might try to cop a feel.

Another connecting train or in some cases a bus she would finally make it to work, guzzling coffee from a nearby stand and her day would begin. If she was lucky she would wolf down a sandwich at lunch before a long afternoon that often ran into early evening and she would begin the commute again, or get dragged out for a work drinks to network before collapsing exhausted into bed.

She loved the freelance part of her job, though it was often a highly competitive field, and she was lucky enough that she could more often than not work from anywhere as long as she had a wifi connection and for a fleeting moment Blake imagines what it would be like to sit at Dana's Diner or the local library, crafting articles seen the world over within the far reaching realms of the internet. It gives her a giddy thrill but then she snorts in mirth at her own ridiculousness.

Who had ever heard of a journalist garnering any sort of critical acclaim hiding in the boonies? 

Her thoughts turn from the musings of fantasy to more pressing reality. If she gets this piece on the fashion designer completed then the cheque from that would help bolster her bank account giving her some much needed wiggle room. It still wouldn't wholly fix the problem as it would still take a number of days for the cash to transfer but there was something else she could be doing in the meantime.

Turning off the hose she began to wrap it up in coils and she was about to make her way back into the house when she realises that she has inadvertently cut off her exit, as to attempt to enter through the back door would result in her getting well and truly soaked from the rehydrated plants dripping over head and she has no wish to look like a damp mess when she needs to put her half baked plan into action.

There is no sign of Maria so she neatly leaves the coiled hose hanging off a part of the pagoda where it won't get caught under foot. The last thing she needs it to be partially responsible for breaking someone's hip, which she can only imagine will not help her cause for what she is about to ask.

Navigating the garden by following one of the many gravel paths boarded with pretty flowers, she finds Maria in the conservatory laying out fruit baskets, a separate wicker basket loaded with muffins with a jar of jelly on the side and a ceramic butter dish. Blake spies steam lazily curling from the spout of a white teapot covered in painted red flowers, beside it two dainty, matching tea cups rounding off the set.

Maria gives her a warm smile as she enters, 

"It's just you and me this morning so I thought it would be nice to enjoy the view rather than sitting in that dark dining room."

Slipping into a comfortable chair full of cushions at the table, Blake with genuine curiosity, asks,

"Is the other lady not joining us?"

"Mrs Schnee?.... No, Mi Nina, she's not much of a morning person. Much prefers her own company."

Maria pushes the muffin basket forward in encouragement and Blake can smell the freshly baked aroma. She licks her lips in anticipation of finding out if indeed they are the best breakfast muffins she will ever taste. She takes her time selecting a warm and toasty muffin, choosing one which she thinks has blueberries in it. Maria fusses about pouring out tea for them both, before dropping in two sugar cubes and a dash of milk and retreating to a seat perfectly situated in a shaft of light, saucer with a precariously balanced tea cup in hand.

The two women sink into a comfortable silence, occasionally broken by the sound of cutlery as Blake cuts into the soft fluffy muffin and liberally applies butter, which begins to melt almost instantly, and spoons on crockery as she demurely stirs sugar and milk into her tea, whilst Maria sips on her own. 

The journalist takes a bite of the muffin, unable to stop the loud hum that escapes her as her mouth is awash with the flavour of the blueberries, the creamy butter and the sweet tasting bread. She can feel eyes watching her with delighted interest as she takes a sip of the tea to wash it down and finds it is exactly how she likes it, hot, strong and aromatic.

The New Yorker takes a moment to appraise the sumptuous feast, catching Maria's eye before she continues to demolish the muffin in huge bites as if she hasn't been fed in days. And when she comes to think of it, she hasn't really had a breakfast of this standard in any of the other motels she has stayed in on her journey. She almost forgets her manners as she tries to heap enthusiastic praise on the amazing baker, beginning to speak with her mouth full, 

"M.s.s Cabba a." She takes huge mouthful of tea, swallowing it all down before she makes another attempt, "- Mrs Calavera, these muffins... They are amazing!"

The old woman smiles knowingly into her cup giving her hair a pat as if preening. Blake, goes to reach for another only to pause mid air, cursing herself at forgetting her manners for a second time, "- Please, may I have another?"

"Of course, dear. It's what they are there for. I always make extra so Penny can take some back home to her father."

Blake doesn't need to be told twice as she eagerly plucks another one from the basket and onto her plate. With one palm she tests the heat of the teapot before pouring herself another fresh cup. As she is about to put it back down she notices Maria hold out her own cup for a refill. Easing round the edge of the table she leans over taking great care as she fills Maria's cup so as not to splash her with the hot liquid. Retaking her seat, she heartily attacks the second helping of breakfast and it is as she is mid chew that Maria asks, 

"So, will you be staying for dinner this evening or are you considering moving on?"

A little taken aback by the forthrightness, Blake puts down the muffin and takes a slow sip of the piping hot beverage with measured movements as she contemplates her answer aware that she is under the watchful gaze of the Boarding House owner. Fiddling with the spoon on the saucer she stares at the pattern of red roses painted onto the white porcelain of the delicate teacup. She isn't entirely sure what she is going to do, but she can't hide from the fact that she will most definitely need to stay over a second night in this small town. Avoiding Mrs Calavera's gaze, she listens as the older woman continues, her tone gentle,

"You have that look about you. As if you don't know if you're coming or going."

Blake murmurs, 

"Is it that obvious?"

Maria takes a sip of her tea, as if she gave no care to the fact that she had laid bare the brunette's plight,

"Not really, you hide it better than most, but when you've been around as long as I have you pick up on these things." She reaches out a hand to stroke the petals of a nearby purple flower, her voice soft, "- I meant what I said yesterday. Take all the time you need, Mi Nina."

The New Yorker half turned in the chair, tucking one leg up and resting her chin on her knee. She picks at the grey shoelace that is in dire need of a wash or replacing altogether. Swallowing, she musters up the courage to attempt the first hurdle in the plan she had half concocted, drunk on a giddy high. It goes against every bit of logic she possess as she utters barely on the cusp of hearing as if she is afraid that the world might hear,

"What if I said I was thinking about staying.... for a little while?"

Maria returns her attention from the flower to the young woman, 

"Is there a particular reason why you're considering it?"

Blake continues to find her sneakers fascinating as she maps the pattern of the brand stitched into the tongue. There are plenty of reasons as to why she might stay longer, the main one being that the end of the forthcoming hog sale is over a week away and the next being the car, but there is one in particular that piques her curiosity. One that she should not be entertaining at all. Burying it deep, she opens her mouth to begin to explain when Maria answers for her,

"You can't afford to leave, can you?"

It's not mean or brusque but rather a statement. Blake quietly regards the astute old lady, searching her face for some sort of reproach but she finds none. With a sad miniscule shake of her head, she replies, 

"Not really..... But please don't worry, I have enough to pay for the room."

The old woman laughs, 

"Mi Nina, I told you, don't worry about that for now. We'll figure something out. " She pats the chair beside her, "- Why don't you come tell Abuela what's really going on?"

Taking the seat beside this warm and comforting old lady, it spills from Blake like a deluge, her predicament with the car and her finances, the options of either waiting it out for a second hand engine and the issues that will arise from such a long wait, how she can't afford a new car outright but she could squeeze out enough for a new engine though it would leave her dead in the water. The third option of hitching a lift which would result in the dire need to get rid of her few belongings. That she is genuinely caught between a rock and a hard place. All the while the old lady patiently listens, her soft hand giving Blake's a squeeze, 

"And what is it that you really want to do?"

Blake casts her eyes out over the garden, trying to swallow the lump in her throat as she admits, 

"I don't want to hitch!" And then words that she never thought she would hear herself say out loud slips from her lips, as finally the load she has been carrying for so long shifts, becoming too much to bare, "I just want to rest, even if it's just for a little while."

"It sounds to me like you know deep down what it is you really want to do, Mi Nina."

The brave bird from earlier in the morning flits through the air coming to land on the lip of one of the plant pots, it's chirps and whistles as if offering Blake some much needed encouragement and advice. As Maria breaks off a generous amount of a muffin, rubbing it between her hands to break it down into manageable pieces for the tiny creature, the journalist uses her fingers to wipe at the slight moisture under her eyes. There is a heavy thoughtful silence emanating from the Boarding House owner as she gently casts out the sumptuous feast on the lip of the step that leads from the conservatory to the garden. She begins to coo and cluck, coaxing the bird and it strikes Blake that he is unable to resist as he hops off the perch and approaches, cautiously snatching a morsel before eagerly returning and pecking at the other pieces with gusto.

The pair watch him, his head tipping this way and that, keeping an eye out for any sort of danger that might attempt to sneak up on him. After a few moments other birds begin to join him and he valiantly grabs a chunk a little too large for him before he struggles to retreat back to the safety of the plant pot and shade of the flowers it holds. He seems to take his time finishing his meal before he cleans his yellow plumage and with a little ruffle of his feathers in satisfaction, he puffs himself up and half closes his eyes, basking in the sun. 

It strikes Blake as some sort of metaphor and she is trying to commit it to memory, to make the words dance together, to choreograph a literary ballet when Maria finally breaks her silence, 

"Do you have a plan?."

"Sort of." The journalist mumbles. 

Behind the overly large glasses, Maria's magnified eyes narrowed to slits before she gives the brunette's knee a hefty slap with a strength that surprised her. In a complete 180 of her earlier soft attitude, the old woman announces,

"Well, what are you doing moping around here? Get up and at them!"

It is not not meant unkindly, but quite the opposite Blake realises. It's a little push with a sprinkle of tough love, exactly what she needs.

What good would it do to allow this overwhelm her? She can do this if she breaks it down into tiny manageable chunks, navigating each one as they present themselves rather than seeing it as a huge beast blocking her every avenue. First the piece on the fashion designer, then onto the next part of her plan. She watches this wise old woman, who seemingly is content on pretending like she hasn't said anything of worth at all and Blake now knows why everyone really calls her Abuela. As Maria takes a sip of her tea, she pulls a face and feels the porcelain of the teacup,

"But maybe after we have had another cup of tea, eh?"

-X-X-X-

For the rest of the morning, Blake remains in the conservatory, fingers flying over the keyboard, reworking and fine tuning the magazine piece as Penny or Maria keep her hydrated with cups of tea. It is as she is scowling at one sentence in particular that she feels eyes upon her. Looking up, she is surprised to find the other lodger watching her from the doorway that leads from the sitting room to the conservatory, with a cup of tea in one hand and what the journalist thinks is a Bloody Mary in the other, if the stick of celery poking out of the red liquid is anything to go by.

The regal looking flaxen haired woman asks in an accent that conjures up images of polo matches and croquet on the lawn, country clubs and a certain genteel disposition attributed to the upper echelons of society oft found below the Mason/Dixon line.

"Would it be awfully presumptuous of me if I joined you?" The woman, with her erect posture moved a little further into the room, "I have no wish to disturb you but I do rather enjoy the view and the quiet around this time."

Blake nodded, gesturing for the other woman to enter before focusing back on the screen. She noticed when the flaxen haired lodger slid the cup of tea onto the table just within reach of the journalist before walking the few steps to a comfortable looking seat with a grace and poise that Blake recognised as similar to the girl from the previous evening.

Out of the corner of her eye, she observed how the older woman very carefully placed down her beverage before taking the seat and slowly sinking back into the cushions. From the depths of somewhere she removed a pair of large sunglasses before slipping them on and reaching for her drink. She swirled the celery stick round in the tall glass and took a long suck of the straw, letting out a satisfied sigh as she seemed to finally relax her shoulders and mold herself into the seat, holding both arms out to the side as if meditating in the warmth of the conservatory, under the light that played in shadowed dapples on her body as the sunlight peeked through the foliage of the trees overhead and a gentle breeze that wafted through the door ruffled the silk material of her housecoat.

Taking a sip of her own drink, the New Yorker tried not to stare as the woman seemed to wriggle to get comfortable, drawing back her expensive silken sleeves to reveal alabaster arms, the whole scene striking Blake as if taken from the very Hollywood Hill's themselves, of a faded movie star from the Golden Era.

The pair remain in silence, both lost in deep in the worlds of their own making but connected through the soundtrack of the gentle rhythmic tap of Blake's fingers on keys and the birds in the garden intermittently raising their voices in conversation, some to each other regardless of breed and others hoping to have their own answer in kind.

Blake puts the finishing touches to the piece that she feels is in no way meaty or an expose as the subject had given nothing away other than the famous fashion designer's own carefully crafted narrative. A refusal to answer anything about her past before she appeared on the register at New York Fashion School and a rather firm view of what exactly the talented artist wanted the end result to convey had left the journalist's hands pretty much tied.

Truth be told, it wasn't her best work but she wasn't entirely disappointed with the finished article either, she had done her best with what she had been given to work with and a cheque was a cheque after all. As she is about to press send, there comes a polite cough of interruption from the conservatories other occupant,

"Pardon my intrusion, but may I be so bold as to inquire what you're working on?"

Surprised at being called upon, Blake replies, 

"It's a piece for a magazine." 

The flaxen haired lodger took a sip of her drink, her gaze hidden behind dark sunglasses never leaving the New Yorker, 

"You're a journalist? Any publication I would know?"

"Freelance." sheepishly, Blake scratches at her head. It's not that she is embarrassed or ashamed but it somehow strikes a nerve as she reluctantly parts, "- It's for Visage."

At that two perfectly manicured eyebrows raise and Blake can't quite read their meaning as she watches the woman shift in her seat tucking her bare feet beneath her. The flaxen haired woman leans over, offering out her pale slender hand, 

"Willow Schnee."

Leaning awkwardly out of her chair, Blake takes it in her own, surprised to find it ice cold and tries not to flinch at the touch and she catches her own reflection in the shiny darken lenses,

"Blake Belladonna."

Willow takes back her hand and makes a show of getting comfortable before she says, 

"Belladonna is a rather unusual name. Any relation to the Belladonna family that were the governors of Hawaii? Or just the Belladonna who wrote an expose on the slum lords of Harlem?" 

The words, each one a shard threatening to shred Blake's composure, linger in the air as if tinkling like icicles caught in Winter's onslaught as the journalist freezes. Willow continues, 

"-Gauging by your reaction I shall take that as a yes."

The journalist balls her hands into fists till her knuckles turn white as a mixture of fear and anger compete at being so easily exposed. Her family had not been in the political spheres since her early teenage years and she had always shied away from the media circus that often surrounded such things as she preferred her anonymity. And the expose, the success she had garnered from that piece had pushed her into the limelight of journalism and be called a talent on the rise, but it had also come at a price and the reason why she was sat here in a kind old woman's conservatory in the middle of the boonies.

In an attempt to gain some semblance of control, Blake unbunched her hands and hit send on the article, casting a sidelong glance at the newly introduced Schnee, who was watching her with keen interest. The regal woman gave a small tight lipped twitch at the corner of her lips and to Blake's horror she realised that she was attempting to smile, 

"I apologise, it would seem that I have upset you, it was far from my intention. I have often been told that I am rather brusque."

Closing the laptop, Blake sat back in her seat crossing her arms over her chest, a slight edge to her voice, 

"And what exactly is your intention?"

She watches as myriad of expressions flitter across Willow's pale features and the woman takes a rather long sip on her straw. When she speaks there is almost a haunted quality to it, 

"I was going to ask if you would do me the courtesy of not divulging my whereabouts to anyone and I would offer you the same kindness?" She pauses briefly before averting her gaze and adding in barely a whisper, "- From one woman who does not wish to be found to another."

And Blake suddenly realises that she has read the situation woefully wrong as she scrutinizes the woman before her. The fading bruises turning to yellow on pale wrists, the overly large glasses hiding her eyes, the bloody mary in her hand and her solitude. And it is with gentle reproach, she asks, 

"Why don't you leave?"

Willow let out a brittle laugh, that echoed mockingly in the small space and caused the birds in the garden to scatter,

"Ha, the fire of youth ...... Nobody likes to be trapped in amber, but alas the creatures inside are never given a choice. One day they are merrily enjoying themselves, wholly ignorant of the slowly creeping tide, the next, it's a whole other lifetime."

"But even the creatures in amber get out.. Eventually!"

Willow removed her sunglasses to reveal sad light grey eyes and a fading bruise on the apple of one of her high cheekbones, 

"Only if you believe in movies about dinosaurs and that 'Life finds a way!'"

It strikes the fleeing journalist as odd, this parallel that she has somehow managed to stumble upon whilst still being adjacent. She knows her math and her angles and that parallel and adjacent could never be attributed to each other but the words still fit the same to describe the situation she has found herself in. Two women, strangers to each other but somehow connected, one dripping in wealth the other barely able to keep her own head above water, both hiding from a creature, a nightmare that it is relentless and will never let them lose from it's jaws and more often than not ends in tragedy. 

Blake reaches over, giving Willow's delicate hand a gentle squeeze, 

"It will be our secret."

The older woman gave a wane smile, 

"Thank you. Your discretion is greatly appreciated."

Checking her phone, the journalist unplugs the laptop and gathers her belongings,

"I am really sorry, Mrs Schnee, but I have to go."

As she is about to exit the conservatory, Willow calls out softly, 

"If you do decide to extend your stay here in Clearwater, you may find a trip to my family's office rather useful. ... It is on The Thoroughfare and can't be missed. ... If you make yourself known to my daughter, Weiss, she may be able to help you secure more permanent lodgings for the duration?"

Pausing in the doorway, Blake nods, 

"Thank you Mrs Schnee. . I will consider it."

Willow raised her glass in reply before slipping back on her sunglasses, settling back into her seat and returning to bask in the sunlight, as if the conversation had never occurred. The way that Willow sits stock still, face turned towards the bright garden outside so full of joy in stark comparison to the unspoken pain within the glass walls, puts the New Yorker in mind of the exhibits at the Natural History Museum.

Beautiful creatures, found in the clutches of tar pits that had refused to let them go no matter how hard they had struggled until too exhausted they had given up, sinking to the bottom and be forever preserved in their last moments of suffering, only to to be rediscovered, crudely fashioned together and displayed for others enjoyment. 

It had always struck Blake as an insult, a mere caricature of their magnificence and what they had once been and for a brief moment she wonders how brightly Willow Schnee had once shined before she had been claimed as yet another unsuspecting victim, and deep down the journalist hopes that one day 'Life might find a way.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are enjoying what you're reading feel free to show your support via a ko fi. 
> 
> :)
> 
> http://ko-fi.com/formerlyrunephoenix6769


	6. Chapter 6

.  
Stepping out onto The Thoroughfare, Blake wasn't at all surprised to find that the small town of Clearwater was bustling by late morning. It could be said that by the Big Apple's standards it was practically dead but the road flowed with traffic rather than angry gridlock and the shouts from the residents going about their business were ones of familial greetings rather than curses born of stress and missed meetings.

The lazy nature of the town was infectious as the journalist ambled towards her destination, taking the time to inspect the two storey shops and offices that lined the main street on either side under an open and bright blue sky, vastly different from the hemmed in and claustrophobic streets she was used to.

A pair of twin girls who looked about 10, with bright blond hair in pigtails and matching cut off denim dungarees over red t shirts, shot out of a shop's doorway, their battered sneakers pounding the pavement as they sped towards her, water pistols in hand giggling, closely followed by a man who hollered from the doorway out onto the street for all the residents to hear,

" Amber and Jasmine Arc! I'll be telling your Father!"

One of the girls stopped to turn round and cheekily stick out her tongue before her sister grabbed her by the hand, dragging her partner in crime behind her. Blake had to swerve out of the way as the pair nearly barrelled into her before taking off of at high speed, their skinny little legs pumping in an attempt to put a distance between them and whatever mischief they had wrought upon the poor shopkeeper.

Blake tried not to laugh as she witnessed the shopkeeper attempt to wipe his dripping face with his sleeve before ducking back into the shop with a face of thunder, no doubt the two tykes were in a whole pile of trouble once they made it home.

Pressing on the journalist passed a small window full of photo frames and display of art supplies, a swinging sign over the door told her that it doubled up as an art gallery and was owned by a one P. Peach and she made a mental note to revisit when she had a little more time.

Up ahead she spied the red and white sign of her destination and took a small moment to check her reflection in a window. In comparison to the evening before the parking spaces outside were almost empty and the front door was wide open. Satisfied with her appearance, she took a huge breath and crossed over the road, slipping her sunglasses onto her head before she stepped through the door and under the cool jets of the AC.

Inside the diner a ballard asking where all the cowboys had gone quietly played on the hidden speakers intermingling with the sound of crockery being moved. A sparse smattering of customers were dotted through out. Blake recognised the old man from the previous evening, newspaper in hand, sat in in the exact same spot. Eyes glued on the page, he distractedly poured sugar from a dispenser, missing his cup entirely.

Another was sat at one of the white formica tables, hair sticking up in tufts as he moved the numerous condiments around as if playing a masterful game of chess as he muttered under his breath to himself and scribbled on the back of a napkin. He looked up as Blake approached the service counter giving her a lopsided smile before ducking his head and resuming his musings.

At first glance the service counter looked abandoned until Blake could hear the tell tale signs of someone working out of sight. Peering over it, she gave a polite cough to hear a reply in an accent that sounded closer to the bodega's back in New York rather than in the depths of Oklahoma, 

"One minute."

Waiting patiently the brunette drank in the oldie worldie coffee machine bubbling and no doubt the culprit of the lack lustre beverage she had tasted the evening before and the huge clock telling her that it was 12:15pm. She heard a quiet curse and suddenly a skinny bird like woman who looked to be in her 50's, wearing the same style shirt and apron as the waitress from the night before came into view with a large red container which she struggled to heft onto the breakfast counter.

Her voice had a gravelly quality to it as she announced matter a factly, 

"Breakfast service is over and lunch special don't start," The woman glanced up at the clock, "- for another 15 minutes."

The waitress busied herself unscrewing the red ketchup bottles lids, lining them up in a row.

The journalist let out a small breath as she fished her phone out of her back pocket. 

"I was hoping to speak to the manager, please?"

Not looking away from her job as she pumped the handle on the huge red tub, the white nozzle deep inside a ketchup bottle. The exertion threatened to tip the tub over and the waitress said, 

"That would be me! Name's Dana, owner, manager, burger extraordinaire. Would you be a doll and hold this steady?"

Gingerly, Blake took hold of the base of red tub with both hands in a bid to hold to stop it tipping over as Dana pumped away, filling each ketchup dispenser until she was satisfied. She wiped the nozzle with a bright white cloth before secreting it out of sight behind the counter with some effort and making a start on screwing the lids back on the smaller bottles. 

"Thanks. What can I do you for?"

Swallowing an unexpected onslaught of nerves, Blake covered it with what she hoped was a bright and breezy smile, 

"I heard you might be looking for a waitress?"

Dana cast her a glance as she continued screwing on the lids and inspecting each one for residue before putting them to one side on a tray, 

"Oh yeah?...Where did you hear that?"

"On the grapevine. Am new to town and looking for work. Was told to try my luck here."

It was a blatant lie but everyone knew that everybody told little white lies when at an interview. It was part and parcel with the territory. Blake followed Dana along the service counter as the woman moved down it, bending over to wash her hands in a sink. She let out a warm laugh that the journalist found she instantly liked,

"There's nothing kept quiet in this town for very long."

After a long pause, the older woman repeated the brunette's introduction, 

"New to town, you say?" Blake nodded. Coming to a decision, Dana gave an incline of her head, "- Follow me."

The older woman took off back along the counter and through a swinging door with the hopeful would be waitress hot on her heels. She led Blake through a hot gleaming kitchen of steel with everything neat in its place and past a man dressed in chef's whites who was engrossed in his work, prepping for the forthcoming lunch hour, making fast work of slicing and dicing fresh onions. Dana flicked at him with a towel as she passed, 

"Keep an eye on the front, Eddie, am heading for a break!" 

The huge bear like man didn't look up from what he was doing but waved a knife in their general direction in reply.

Dana led the journalist through a corridor and out the back onto a small loading bay that opened out onto a narrow back street awash with light and a trap for the mid summer's heat. Large bins with padlocks on lined one wall and the other crates of colour coded bottles. From behind a pillar the older woman pulled out a canvas camping chair, shaking it open before plopping down into the seat with a satisfied sigh. From the depths of her apron pocket she pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.

"Where you from?"

"New York."

Dana grinned, 

"Big City girl, eh? You're a bit far from home!"

"Could say the same for yourself. Is that a New Jersey accent, I hear?" Blake parried smoothly. 

Dana broke out into a hearty laugh, 

"Feisty! You can take the girl out of the city but you can't take the city out of the girl.." She took another drag of her cigarette, the blue smoke drifting up from her mouth, "You got a name, Big City Girl?"

"Blake."

The older woman began to massage her calf with both of her hands, leaving the cigarette dangling from her lips. Somehow managing to keep hold of the yellow tip, she spoke out of the side of her mouth, 

"Please would you sit down? Hovering over me is making me nervous."

Looking around, the brunette eased herself onto the lip of the loading dock, the heels of her sneakers bouncing against the concrete as her legs dangled over the edge. This little corner behind the diner could be anywhere Blake mused as she took in the red brick, the bins and on the cusp of hearing the sound of cars passing the entrance to the narrow back street. She could be still back in New York or New Orleans if she didn't know better and how the smell was entirely different.

She observed as a ginger and white cat came slinking round the corner only to break into a trot as soon as it saw the diner's owner. It gracefully leapt from the street onto the loading dock, making little meeps of greeting, it's tail stood straight up and it began nudge Blake's arm with its head demanding attention. Trailing her fingers over it's ears and down along its spine to finally stroke it's tail, she repeated the action and the cat let out a deep rumble from its chest. It flopped on it's side, chatting away with little meows and meeps.

She was entirely in a world of her own, playing with the street cat until it decided as all cats do, that it had seemingly had enough attention from the stranger and it took off over to the familiar territory of the Diner owner.

Dana crossed one leg over the other at the knee, jostling her leg so the loose heel of her croc would dangle tantinglisgly out of reach for the cat's benefit, who lazily swatted at it with a white paw, tail swishing against the concrete.

Not looking up from the cat and its lack lustre hunt, Dana left the sentence as a lure, much like the heel of her shoe,

"Are you just passing through or........?"

Blake swallows, contemplating her answer, her gaze never leaving the woman who is sat on the loading dock like some sort of burger queen. Criss crossing over America she had left a hodge podge of lies and half truths in her wake, and she doesn't know why she feels that this is different, that in this instance honesty is the best policy, though a lie would more than likely secure her this much needed employment. Rubbing her hands against the material of her light leggings, the wanna be waitress sits up and squares her shoulders,

"Haven't decided yet, was going to see if I could get a job first."

Dana squints against the smoke, tipping the ash off the end of the white stick to one side so as not to land on the cat. 

"You got any experience? It's no secret that I'm short staffed and with the Hog Sale coming, we're gonna be more than swamped but there's no point if you're gonna be underfoot or need training up."

It's not unkind, just a matter a fact and makes good business sense. 

Blake pulls out her phone and opens up the document she had downloaded from her laptop the night before in preparation. She leans over, holding out the device only for Dana to wave it away, and continue, 

"I have no truck with that. Piece of paper means nothing to me. What I want to know is, can you take orders, serve and keep up?"

Running her fingers through her hair, Blake gives her a smile and a nod, 

"Paid my way through college as a barista and a waitress."

Leaning awkwardly to one side so she can reach the ground, the older woman stubs out her cigarette and flicks it with a dead aim so it bounces off the wall and into a large white bucket. Slowly she gets to her feet, the ginger and white cat rubbing up against her leg, arching its back and wrapping its tail round her calf. Dana gently shoo's it away yet it follows at close quarters as she takes off towards the diner's back door. 

"Rush hour is about to start. If you can handle that, we'll go from there." Much like the cat, Blake follows the owner back inside, who calls out, "Be a dear and pull the mesh door too, don't need Marmalade causing havoc in the kitchen, Eddie might get ideas."

Gently, Blake uses the toe of her sneaker to stop the cat from following any further as she closes the mesh door, and receives an insulted meow for her troubles.

Working her way back towards the kitchen, from which comes the sounds of someone busy at work, she is stalled when Dana pops her head from a side door, 

"What size shoe are you?"

Wrinkling her forehead in confusion, it takes a few seconds to register the strange question, 

"A 6.5??"

The diner owner ducks back into the room only to reappear a few seconds later with what looks like a pair of closed toe black crocs. She holds them out, expectantly, waiting for Blake to take them. At the journalist's hesitation, Dana explains, 

"They're ugly as sin but they're comfy and regulation steel toed, non slip." Blake takes them, crinkling her nose slightly at the garish looking foam clogs. Catching the action, Dana continues, "- You'll be thanking me at the end of the end of the shift. Trust me!" She pointed at a brown worn door, "- There's a locker in here for your stuff and a fresh apron. Join me out the front when you're ready!"

Sitting on a chair, Blake uses her toe to shrug out of her battered sneakers and slips on the ugly looking clogs. Tapping her feet against the floor in quick succession she is surprised to find that they are in fact comfortable. She snorts at herself as she remembers a conversation with her old flatmate, Sienna and how neither of them would be caught dead in a pair of crocs thinking they were reserved for old women, hippies and the birkenstock loving members of the LGBTQ community. 

If only she could see you now, Belladonna!

Finding a bright white apron on the table, she slips it over head and swifty ties it round her waist. Checking her phone she finds 12:30pm winking back and she places them and her sunglasses inside her sneakers and into one of the lockers, popping the key into the pocket of the apron. Hurrying down the corridor, she makes quick work of pulling her hair into a braid, laying it over one shoulder. The last thing she needed was to be responsible for a customer finding extra and unwanted protein in their meal during her trial run.

As she passes through the kitchen , she spies Eddie at work, whistling along to the music that drifts in from the front of the diner as he slaps burgers on the griddle that hiss and a bright blonde haired teenage girl filling up the industrial sinks with what looked like hot soapy water. Stepping through the swinging door, she finds that there are quite a number of customers already sat at the booths and tables. 

Dana hands her a name tag with 'City Girl' written in black marker. As Blake struggles to pin it to her apron, high enough for people to see, the diner owner slides a pen and order pad onto the counter, 

"For now, just write the number of the menu item and the table. Stick the chit here," She shoved a order receipt into a small clip on a revolving slider over the serving counter, "- Don't fret about the till, I'll sort that out."

She took a step back, admiring her new charge like a proud mother hen.

"You ready, Big City Girl?"

Blake nodded with a smile, 

"Thank you, Dana, for giving me a chance."

The older woman let out a cackle and grinned like a shark, 

"Don't thank me just yet!.... Now get your ass out there, we've hungry mouths to feed!"

With a roll of her shoulders and a crack of her neck, the New Yorker stepped out onto the serving floor, approaching her first table with a huge smile, 

"Hello, my name is City Girl and I will be your server for today!"

x-x-x

It's two hours later that Blake flops into one of the booths, exhausted and calves aching as the blond teenage kitchen porter speeds past with a grey wash basin full of the red wicker serving baskets and cutlery. Holding the swinging door open for the teenager, who ducks under his arm, Eddie calls out, 

"Hey City Girl, can I rustle up somethin, for ya?"

She aches from head to toe and she does indeed have to thank Dana for the loan of the shoes. It's been so long since she had worked in the service industry she had almost forgotten how grueling it could be and she has had a swift sharp lesson in how unused to it she had become, legs and arms going soft from sitting at a desk all day. 

She realises that the heavy shift has given her an appetite, something she hasn't really had much of since she put pedal to the metal out of the city,

"What ever you have going. I wouldn't want to be a bother."

With a doff of his white chef's cap he disappears back into the kitchen as Blake gets to her feet and busies herself wiping down the tables with a hot damp cloth and making sure the condiments and menus are neat and presentable. She is about to make a break for it and find out what Eddie could have instore for lunch when the bell over the door tinkles, announcing a new customer.

Standing in the doorway, engrossed in her phone is the flaxen haired friend of Yang's from the evening before and Blake wonders if this is the same woman Willow Schnee spoke of. 

Surely there can't be too many people running around with the same unusual hair or German sounding name?

There comes the tell tale click of heels on tiles as the young woman moves further into the diner dressed in a what the journalist can only think of as no nonsense professional attire that looks expensively tailored to fit her slight frame. It strikes Blake that she wouldn't look out of place in the corporate offices of New York, an executive type to be dropped off outside by a sleek black town car and a chauffeur rushing out to open the door.

Rounding the service counter and placing the cloth in the sink, the brunette quickly straightens her apron in an attempt to make herself look presentable before announcing, 

"Hello, welcome to Dana's Diner, I shall be your server for today."

At that the flaxen blonde looks up, eyes going wide for a minuscule moment before narrowing into a small scowl and a slight bunching of eyebrows in the middle. Placing her purse on the service counter and struggling to climb into one of the high breakfast stools she says with a pompous air, 

"Coffee. Black. No cream or sugar."

Rankled by the off hand, dismissive tone, Blake remains where she is. The pair lock eyes for a beat and the New Yorker is willing to stay there all day as it doesn't cost much to be polite and she will be damned if she will be talked down to, no matter how broke she is.

Blue eyes flicker up and down before finally landing on the journalist's name tag and back to her face. She looks as if she is about speak when their staring contest is broken by an obnoxious buzzing from the cell phone. With a slender hand, an expensive ring on her finger catching the light, she rubs at a her forehead letting out a long exasperated sigh ignoring the buzzing from the purse.

Wriggling back into the high chair she corrects her posture sitting ramrod straight and placing both hands flat on the edge of the counter as if in a bid to steady herself. She waits an awkwardly long time until the buzzing finally stops before she speaks,

"I'm sorry. That was rather rude of me." She stresses the word, "-'Please' could I have a coffee...."

Blake interrupts, placing a mug and saucer on the counter top,

"Black, no creamer or sugar, right?"

In direct contrast to earlier, gone is the pompous air as the woman's shoulders sag slightly and she sighs with relief, 

"Oh, God, yes!"

Pouring out the hot brown liquid, Blake observes how the flaxen woman's eyes almost light up as the mug is slowly filled, asking conversationally,

"Rough day at the office?"

The woman gives her what she thinks is an appreciative smile as she patiently waits for the fledgling waitress to finish, 

"Something like that."

Taking a delicate sip, the woman closes her eyes for a brief second as if the coffee is a nectar before placing the mug gently back on the saucer without making a clink,

"You're Yang's friend from out of town....Staying at the Calavera house, right?"

Blake made a small display at wiping the service counter, replying genially,

"News travels fast."

Weiss begins turning the cup on the saucer, clockwise three times and then repeated the action in the direction, 

"Not difficult in a town this size."

From out of the kitchen, Eddie appeared plate in hand, laden with a sandwich that could be used as a doorstop,

"There ya go, Big City Girl, tuck in..." Sliding it over the counter, he added, "- If ya let me know what you usually like I'll make sure to get it in by the lunch shift tomorrow."

Reaching for the plate, it takes Blake a few moments to register what he meant, 

"Lunch shift?" Eddie gives her a small smile watching her, breaking into a wider grin, when she exclaims, "- I got the job?"

"You sure did!" He gives her a pat on the shoulder, much softer than the journalist expected with his huge bear like hands and beefy arms, "- The boss lady was mighty impressed! She wants you back on for the evening rush, if ya staying around, o'course?"

The New Yorker doesn't know which hits first, it's a mixture of elation, relief and a genuine feather lightness replacing the weight that she has been carrying for far to long. It's as if a heavy mist has lifted, dissipated by the Oklahoma sunshine itself and she lets out a loud squeal of excitement, 

"Of course, of course, I'll be here! Thank You, thank you so much!"

Eddie breaks into a loud laugh, 

"Be thanking Dana... Now eat up, gotta keep your strength!"

He disappears back into his domain, leaving the newly appointed waitress with her customer, who is tapping away on her phone. She looks up, offering out a slender hand, 

"Congratulations!"

Blake takes it, give it a gentle shake, 

"Thankyou."

Weiss glances at the clock, with a sigh, 

"I best be off, the Auction isn't going to run itself." She slides off the chair and slips a 5 dollar bill under her mug on the saucer, "- If you are thinking of putting down roots, Blake, make sure to take my mother up on her offer." Flipping her flaxen ponytail over her shoulder, she makes to leave only to pause in the doorway, and adding, 

"Oh and Blake, welcome to Clearwater!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wild ride folks, starting on a Golden Cowgirl's firm thigh and ending , sort of in a quaint diner. 
> 
> If you are interested to see how the rest of Cowgirl Yang and Journalist Blake's relationship progresses, please click the link below that will bring you to the second part in the series 'Fields of Gold: Clearwater Chronicles' which is followed by a third, "Rolling Thunder."
> 
> Thankyou all for your patience and support and joining me on this thoroughly enjoyable story. 
> 
> I would suggest listening to what the FNDM has affectionately called 'Farmed and Ready' from the VOL 6 RWBY ST. 
> 
> I was getting inundated with messages when it hit, that it fit this fic perfectly. 
> 
> HOWDY YA'LL and I'll catch up in the Crosshares FOG spinoff, where we meet Carrie Mortimer, aka Coco Adel and Velvet Scarlatina in 'Confessions of a Fashionista'.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading


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